


Whether Near to Me or Far

by drunkonwriting



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Character Death, F/M, Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape, atonement!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/pseuds/drunkonwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1937, Kurt Hummel, son of a rich family, and Blaine Anderson, part of the Hummel staff, have little in common beyond a shared education at Yale and a childhood friendship. The summer after their college graduation, Kurt and Blaine find themselves growing more and more attracted to each other. However, before they have a chance to be together, one night's events and a chain of misunderstandings change their entire history and pulls them apart. As they struggle to find each other again, they're hindered by war and the shadow of the events that ruined their lives. Klaine, Atonement!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. whether near to me or far

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  homophobia, racism, sexism (1930's!), angst angst  **angst** , non-graphic rape, character death, very light Rachel-bashing, war, some violence, sexual situations, some historical inaccuracies since I'm not an expert on World War II.  
>  **Story Notes:**  Written for the gleeatthemovies bigbang challenge, with all of the lovely, lovely art done by kymercil . There's also a wonderful fanmix, which can be found [ **here**](http://www.mediafire.com/?ikct4c9yfausi), made by mixed_berryjam
> 
> Some of the dialogue has been pulled directly from the script of  _Atonement,_ although some situations have been changed to go along with Glee canon (mostly the placement in America). Some 1930's/1940's terminology. All music mentioned is embedded, and artists/titles can be found in the end story notes. Title is taken from "Night and Day," from  _The Gay Divorcee_.

**[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/unwritten25/pic/0000xc6b/) **

  
_[many scratched out beginnings]_

_This is a novel about--_

_When I was thirteen--_

_Goddamnit--_

_I can’t--_

_[many more scratch-outs, scribbles, a very bad drawing of a cat]_

_This is how it begins: a warm summer day, 1937. I was thirteen years old._

**America**  
 **Summer 1937**

“Rachel? Rachel!” Hurrying footsteps. “Where is that damn girl?!”

Rachel, hidden in a side staircase, giggled quietly. Unfortunately, the sound carried in the now quiet hall.

“Rachel Hummel!” the head maid, Elaine Anderson, stuck her head inside the staircase, glaring at her.

Elaine was older than Rachel by a good fifty years, but she didn’t look it. Her hair was still a dark brown, and her eyes were still clear and alert. Right now, though, she looked angry - her hair a wild tangle, color high in her cheeks. Rachel admitted reluctantly that she might have a reason to be. Rachel was supposed to be meeting her newly arrived cousins right now, and her mother would be furious once Rachel showed up late. 

“Come _on_ , silly girl,” Elaine said, taking Rachel by the hand. “What in the good Lord’s name has gotten into you today?”

Rachel bit her lip and held Elaine’s hand more tightly. She didn’t want to tell Elaine that her cousins intimidated and frightened her. Elaine would just tell her to gather her courage and get over it. Elaine put a lot of stock in courage - Rachel didn’t like it nearly as much. It always got one stuck in situations they couldn’t get out of.

“Come, come, we still need to get you tidied up--”

“Oh, dear. What have you done this time, Rachel?”

Rachel’s body warmed. She looked up to see Elaine’s son, Blaine, grinning down at her. He was covered in sweat and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up - he must’ve been doing work out in the garden. Rachel suddenly felt flustered.

“She was hiding in a stairwell,” Elaine told her son, softening a bit. She reached out and tried to press down one of Blaine’s wayward curls - it didn’t do much. Blaine’s hair had a mind of its own. “Blaine, honey, you were supposed to get cleaned up as well to meet the Puckerman children.”

Blaine sighed. “Mr. Hummel wanted some last minute yard work done before they got here,” he said quietly. 

Elaine huffed. “Like two fifteen year olds are going to notice _yard work_. Honestly, Mr. Hummel is a good man, but he works you to death sometimes, Blaine--”

“Mother,” Blaine said, tired expression softening. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Rachel very determinedly did not think about how much she wished it was _her_ cheek Blaine was kissing. “I’m _fine_. Mr. Hummel is good to us, you know that. He’s a nice man.”

Elaine sighed. “I know,” she murmured. Then, as if just remembering Rachel was there, she turned to her and said loudly, “C’mon you! Up to your room, so we can have you looking like a proper lady!”

Elaine swept Rachel away. Rachel smiled when she heard Blaine yell, “There’s nothing wrong with _not_ being a proper lady, mother!”

-

Kurt was hot and tired and very, very cranky.

He also wanted a cigarette.

He was trying to quit, he really was. Jesse had told him over and over again that it was bad for his throat, and how could he pursue that singing dream if he couldn’t even use his instrument, hm? But cigarettes took the edge off of everything that went wrong in Kurt’s life. Which, right now, covered quite a bit of it. 

He glanced over at _them_. Santana and Noah Puckerman, just arrived in from San Fransisco. Kurt sighed quietly. His dad had explained the situation with their mother - Kurt’s aunt - a few months back. Apparently her husband was a huge dead-beat. He sat around at home and went out gambling every night, and it wasn’t long until the entire family was up to their elbows in debt. Kurt’s aunt had finally had enough a few weeks back and decided to leave him, taking her children with her. Well, her _child_. Noah was the only one who Kurt was blood-related to. Santana had been born in the husband’s first marriage - apparently the mother had died and her father had been forced to take her along to his next conquest. 

Santana and Puck shared a certain vague resemblance due to their shared father, but little else. They were both brown-eyed and dark-haired, but Santana’s face was sharper, leaner - it made her always look alert and intense. Kurt, despite himself, was impressed by her. She seemed very intelligent. 

Puck, on the other hand, had a square, rugged face, and from what Kurt had seen, he seemed to be more little more than a pretty face and a flirt with little brainpower to spare. From the moment Noah and Santana had arrived, Noah had tried to woo no less than seven maids, all with varying degrees of success. Kurt was almost looking forward to seeing him try it with Elaine or Quinn or even Brittany - if anyone could put the kid in his place, it would be one of them. Especially Elaine, who was one of the most strong-willed women Kurt had ever met.

And, as always, thoughts of Elaine brought the thoughts of Blaine--

_No,_ Kurt thought. _Focus. You have to stop thinking about him._

“How was your train ride?” Kurt forced himself to ask.

Puck, distracted by the nearest maid, didn’t answer. However, Santana’s eyes flickered up towards him. Her mouth curved into something that was probably supposed to resemble a smile, but was entirely too bitter to be convincing. 

“Pleasant enough,” she murmured. Her voice was low and raspy, as if she’d smoked her entire life, and Kurt wondered what she’d sound like singing. 

“I’m glad,” Kurt murmured, almost uncomfortable with Santana’s focus on him.

“Where’s the rest of the . . . _family_?” Santana asked, a faint sneer on her face.

Kurt frowned at her. “Your _family_ will be here shortly,” he snapped, irked by her tone. They were taking her in, despite the fact that they weren’t even _related_ to her - Santana could damn well be thankful for it. Santana looked startled for a moment.  “Just give them a few minutes. It’s been a busy day.”

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Kurt knew who it was before the door opened - no one in the house ran like Rachel. He opened up his arms as soon as the door knob turned and Rachel, true to form, flung herself in them. Kurt whirled her around and then set her gently down on her feet. For a moment, he realized that Rachel was getting heavier - soon they wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Santanas’s face, full of something very close to jealousy. 

“Kurt!” Rachel chirped excitedly. “Do you like my dress? Do you?”

Kurt eyed her critically. Elaine had fairly good taste, even if she tended to be more conservative than Kurt liked. Rachel was dressed in a clean cut navy blue dress and matching shoes, a ribbon in her hair. Kurt smiled.

“You look lovely, doll” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top her head. “Now, come see our cousins.” He directed her to the two teenagers. Noah had finally stopped flirting with the maid, to Kurt’s relief.

Kurt felt Rachel’s hand tighten in his and sighed. He had only met the cousins once before, briefly - since they were closer in age to Rachel, she had spent more time with them. She’d confessed to Kurt once before that she was scared of Santana. Kurt could understand that a little better now. He had no doubt that Santana could be very intimidating when she wanted to be.

“Rachel,” Santana said, her eyes dark, expression washed clean.

Noah grinned, shark-like, and his resemblance to Santana suddenly became much clearer. “Nice to see you again, kid.”

“Hi, Noah, Santana,” Rachel said, her usually exuberant voice rather small. Kurt gathered her close to his side and glared at Santana. She met him stare for stare.

“I’m sure you’ll all get along wonderfully,” Kurt snapped. 

“Of course,” Santana said smoothly, smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.

Noah looked confused, looking between Kurt and Santana with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, of course,” he murmured. 

The door opened again to admit Kurt’s father and step-mother. Kurt relaxed a little bit as Santana’s haughty expression cleared away. He doubted she’d try anything the presence of the people who were taking her in. Still, he kept a close eye on her.

“Son,” his father said, sweeping towards him with a wide smile. 

Burt Hummel had been busy with work the past few days, and this was Kurt’s first time seeing him in almost a week. Burt pulled him forward for a half-hug, then dropped a kiss on Rachel’s head. When he pulled away, he strode to the Puckerman children, holding out a hand for Noah to shake and exclaiming over how pretty Santana had become.

Carole, Kurt and Rachel’s step-mother, came forward next. She smiled warmly at them both and pressed a kiss to their cheeks. “Everyone behaving?” she murmured to Kurt.

Kurt shrugged. “They’re fifteen and their family is in ruins,” he murmured back, eyes on Santana. “They’re behaving as best they can.” He didn’t really believe his own words, but he didn’t want to make Santana’s attitude an issue. 

Carole nodded. Kurt liked Carole well enough, though she was only older than him by ten years or so. His father had married her after Kurt’s own mother had died when he was ten due to a long-term illness that had wasted her away for almost a year. Kurt could still remember the round of nurses and doctors that had come to the house every day, and those last few months his mother had spent in one of the local hospitals. It was the reason he refused doctors, even when he’d dislocated his shoulder before he’d gone to Yale falling out of a tree. His father had been furious with him, but Kurt had been stubborn. And, in the end, Blaine had been the one to set his shoulder, his hands warm on Kurt’s arm--

_No,_ Kurt reminded himself. _No._

“Dinner will be in two hours,” his father said, drawing Kurt’s attention. “And I have an announcement to make.” He turned towards Kurt and Rachel, beaming. “Sam will coming home tomorrow.”

A pause.

Rachel screamed. Kurt grabbed her again and swung her around, heart beating fast with joy. “Really?! He’s really coming home?” He asked, setting Rachel down.

His father and Carole were both grinning. “Yes, he is,” his father said. “He called us this morning. His plane comes in tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s _wonderful_!” Rachel exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight, I’ll be so excited! What time?!”

“Three o’clock,” Carole said, slipping an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “He and a friend from work will be staying with us for the rest of the month.”

Kurt frowned. “Friend from work?” he asked, nonplussed. Sam had never mentioned anyone from work in his letters home or his phone calls. Kurt had been worried about that - it had seemed like Sam was lonely.

“Yes, a young man called David Karofsky,” Carole explained. “He doesn’t have any family to visit, poor lad, but Sam invited him to come and stay with us during his vacation time.”

“Do you think Sam would like a performance tomorrow night?” Rachel asked excitedly. She turned to Kurt, tugging on his hands. “Oh, Kurt, you’ll sing with me, won’t you? Won’t you?”

Kurt smiled and ruffled her hair. “Of course, darling.”

“Sing?” Noah asked. Kurt jumped. He’d forgotten they were there in the excitement.

Rachel drew herself up proudly and announced, “I’m going to be a professional singer one day! And so is Kurt!”

Santana barked out a laugh. “ _Really_ ,” she scoffed, raising an eyebrow.

Rachel glared at her. “Yes,” she said, meeting Santana’s eyes without fear for once. “We’ll be on Broadway!”

Santana’s mouth tilted at the corner, a small, cruel sneer. Then she looked at Burt and Carole and collected herself, pretending to smile. “I’m sure you will be,” she said with false cheer. 

“I’m sure Sam would love a performance, sweetheart,” Carole said, eyeing Santana closely. “How about after dinner tomorrow night, hm?”

Rachel’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had come up. “Kurt, Kurt, come on, we need to practice!” She tugged at Kurt’s hands, dragging him out of the door.

As Kurt left, he glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Santana’s bitter half-smile.

-

“Kurt, you’ve got to be nice to this girl.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say I _wouldn’t_ be nice to her, Jesse.”

Jesse St. James rolled on his stomach and looked up at Kurt skeptically. Kurt gave in after a minute.

“Oh, alright, maybe I was going to be a little mean. But you should’ve seen the way she was looking at Rachel!”

Jesse softened a bit - he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Rachel. “Look, _I don’t care_ , but if she’s been through what you’ve said, then she’s having a hard time. She’ll probably get over it eventually. Don’t blow it up into something more than it is.”

Kurt hid a smile in his hand. Jesse liked to say that he didn’t care a lot, usually right before he said something that proved how much he did care. It was one of the reasons Kurt was still friends with him, despite his sometimes irritating arrogance and Kurt’s envy over how perfectly coiffed his hair was.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with them,” Kurt said, laying down. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that complained about grass stains. “It’s not just Santana. Noah was flirting with everything that looked remotely female, and I’m half-worried that some of the young maids will take him up on it.”

Jesse sighed. “Better that he lust after maids than ladies, Kurt,” he said. “Although you’d better get it into his head that he can’t act the same way around dames like Quinn or Brittany. Or Rachel, for that matter.”

Kurt shook his head. “She’s thirteen, Jesse, I doubt Noah is going to attempt anything with her.” If he did, he’d find himself lacking the necessary equipment to _have_ sex. 

“I’m just saying. Although, if you leave it be, Quinn will probably give him a talking to herself. She doesn’t let anyone walk over her, that dame.” Jesse sounded admiring. Kurt snorted. Jesse admired any woman who slapped him instead of giving into his wiles. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Kurt murmured, wondering what the least awkward way to tell someone to be less of an obnoxious flirt was. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of movement and turned his head. He froze, tensing up. Blaine stood near the fountain in the middle of the yard, his sleeves rolled up as he pushed a wheelbarrow full of dirty fruits and vegetables up the thin cobbled path that led up to the main house. Kurt absently realized he was coming from Carole’s vegetable garden. She’d came up with the idea, but she didn’t actually spend much time in it. Blaine harvested most of the plants.

Jesse, sensing the sudden change in Kurt, turned his head and caught sight of Blaine too. He sighed deeply, breaking Kurt out of his trance.

“Kurt,” Jesse said quietly. “You’re still . . .?”

“No,” Kurt said quickly, feeling a blush creep up the back of his neck. “No, I just. He surprised me, that was all. What were we talking about?”

“Kurt, you know you can talk to me about--”

“ _Jesse_ ,” Kurt snapped. “I’m fine, okay, I just wasn’t expecting him to suddenly appear. It’s fine. I’m over it. It was--I was just confused, that’s all--”

Jesse’s hand found his. Kurt tensed. Jesse was never physically affectionate, not unless he was feeling particularly sentimental. 

“Kurt,” Jesse murmured. “You need to be careful.”

Kurt’s hand tightened around Jesse’s and his eyes returned to Blaine, who had stopped to catch his breath. For a brief moment, he stretched up on his toes, and the sun was directly behind his head, giving him a halo. An ache opened up in Kurt’s stomach, and he forced himself to look away, to focus on Jesse instead: Jesse, who was staring at him with warm, concerned eyes.

“I know,” he whispered. 

_But it’s already too late_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head. Kurt buried it back until he couldn’t hear it anymore.


	2. I'm so lonely I could cry

Rachel stared out the window longingly.

Outside, the day was beautiful and clear, the perfect muggy July afternoon. She could see the fountain from her spot inside and the cool water had never looked more inviting. She entertained the idea of going swimming in it briefly, then discarded it, blushing. How unladylike, swimming in a fountain! 

She sighed again. She wished Sam were here already. She hadn’t seem him in a year and she loved Sam quite dearly. Not as much as Kurt, but she and Kurt shared many more personality quirks and goals, so it was only understandable that she would favor him. All the same, Sam was her older brother and she adored him, even if he had been away for awhile.

She wished Kurt would have been willing to do another practice session, but after running through their duet all morning, he’d ended their practice with a huff and a promise that they’d do one more before the actual performance. Rachel wasn’t satisfied. She wanted everything to be perfect for Sam. More than that, _she_ wanted to be perfect for Sam. Her parents and Kurt heard her perform too often to give an adequate amount of appreciation anymore, and she hoped that his long absence would mean Sam would have forgotten how hopelessly talented his baby sister was, thus leaving him in awe of her voice.

Rachel jerked her head when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and smiled involuntarily when she saw Kurt heading towards the fountain, with what looked like a vase tucked under one arm. She didn’t know what he was doing with the vase - had someone gathered flowers? That would explain why he was dipping it into the fountain to gather water--

From the other side of the garden, Blaine suddenly appeared and approached Kurt. Rachel jumped and Kurt, from what Rachel could see, did as well, dropping the vase. 

Rachel watched, wide-eyed and fascinated, as Kurt and Blaine talked. Blaine approached where Kurt had been sitting on the edge of the fountain and picked something up - Rachel guessed that maybe it was a piece of the vase. _Mama will be so angry,_ she thought. Mama hated it when anything in the household broke. She couldn’t see Blaine’s face - his back was to the window - but Kurt looked angry, his face red in the way it only got when he was either embarrassed or furious. And, as she watched, Blaine backed away and Kurt began to strip off his jacket, then--then his pants, _what was he doing_ \--

Blaine was looking to the side now, and Rachel could only see bits and pieces of him: the way his eyebrow dipped, the curve of his down turned mouth. She looked back over at Kurt and gasped when she saw he’d disappeared. _Where is he?_ she thought, just as Kurt suddenly surfaced _from_ _the fountain_ and pulled himself over the edge, standing there clad only in his white button-up shirt and undershorts, both of which were so soaked that even Rachel could almost see through them all the way from the house--

Kurt stood there for a long moment. Rachel was staring, she knew, but she couldn’t stop. What was he doing, _what was going on?_ Blaine had turned to face Kurt again, so Rachel couldn’t see his face. For the longest moment, they stood there, staring at each other. Rachel, for some reason, held her breath.

Then Kurt jumped off the side of the fountain and began collecting his clothes hurriedly. He drew them up over his wet body and then stalked off past Blaine, grabbing something from his hand. Rachel let out her breath and stared at the frozen figure of Blaine. For a long moment, he just stood there: then he moved towards the fountain. He sat on the edge and leaned over - Rachel moved forward until her nose was pressed against the glass of the window, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Blaine hurriedly stood again and nearly ran away from the fountain, heading back towards the house in the opposite direction Kurt had taken, probably to the servant quarters.

Rachel stared at the empty fountain, nonplussed, wondering what on _Earth_ had just happened.

-

Kurt didn’t like wildflowers much. Or, at least, he didn’t like _picking_ them. He had a thing about bees, and for some reason bees _loved_ wildflowers. 

But he’d been heading home after a long walk and the flowers had just been there, so Kurt had taken them. Mostly because Sam was coming home and flowers brightened things up a bit. Kurt brought the bunch of flowers in his hand up to his nose to smell as he stepped inside his house’s cool interior. Having the weight of the sun off of his back was a blessing - they had reached mid-summer, and the weather was reflecting that. It had been nothing but hazy, hot days for the past week. 

Kurt managed to find a vase inside that wasn’t already being used - Carole’s favorite vase, the one she’d received from her mother on her first wedding day. He frowned down at the waterless inside and sighed. He would have to go down to the kitchen and fill it--

A flash of movement caught his eye and he turned to look out the large bay windows that overlooked the garden. His throat tightened when he saw Blaine off to the side, lounging on the steps to the house, cigarette in his hand. Kurt could see Blaine take the butt up to his mouth and for a moment--

_The sound of a doorknob turning, the creak of a door--_

_Two bodies moving heavily together, books falling to the ground--_

_“Kurt, wait, stop, I’m sorry--I’m sorry you had to see that--”_

Kurt turned on his heel, breath fluttering in his throat. _Go away,_ he instructed the memories sternly, but they lingered. Kurt bit his lip, then grabbed his face and stormed out of the room. At the last minute, he changed his direction from the kitchen to the steps that led to the lawn. 

He tried to ignore Blaine on the steps as he passed, but Blaine jumped up to meet him as Kurt approached. A friendly smile played at the edge of his lips, and his half-smoked cigarette was in his hand. Kurt turned his attention to the cigarette.

“Share a snipe with me?” he asked Blaine brusquely, refusing to look him in the eye.

“I’d better not,” Blaine said. Kurt could tell from his voice that he was still smiling. Blaine always smiled. It drove Kurt insane. “Jesse warned me not to give them to you.”

Kurt’s shoulders tightened. “You’ve been talking with Jesse?” he asked, more sharply than he meant to.

“He comes over a lot,” Blaine said, sounding puzzled. “Sometimes he stops by to say hello.”

Kurt bit his lip. Jesse _knew_ \--

“I see,” he bit out brusquely. “Don’t you have some gardening to be doing or something?”

He strode off hurriedly and his shoulders relaxed when he didn’t hear Blaine following him. He reached the fountain and sat down, staring at his reflection in the water. _Too pale,_ he thought. Kurt was always pale. He burned in the sun and when the sunburn peeled away, it took all traces of a tan with it. Kurt picked up the vase and brought it down to scoop up some of the fountain water.

There was a footstep behind him and Kurt jumped, hitting the vase on the side of the fountain and making it crack. Kurt watched, open-mouthed with surprise, as the vase broke away from the handle and drifted to the bottom of the fountain, where he heard it crack. He whirled around on his heel and glared at Blaine, who looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you--”

“You _oaf_ ,” Kurt snarled. “That was Carole’s _favorite vase_! And now it’s _broken_! Because of _you_!”

Blaine held his hands up. “I _am_ sorry,” he said again. Blaine moved forward and grabbed the handle piece from Kurt’s hand, turning it over. He winced. “Oh. This is Ms. Hummel’s mother’s vase, isn’t it?” He bit his lip. Kurt attempted to not be distracted. “She won’t be happy.” He looked down at where Kurt was sitting and his eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. “You can blame me, if you want.”

Kurt glared at him. “Oh trust me, _I will_.” 

Flustered, he looked away from Blaine towards the fountain. He leaned over and attempted to grab the vase, but the water was too deep, and his fingertips only brushed it. Kurt cursed, not for the first time, his family’s need to make everything in their home extravagant and huge. The fountain should have been much shallower, but his father had insisted on making it ridiculously deep. 

“I’ll have to go in and get it,” Kurt murmured consideringly.

Beside him, Blaine stiffened. “No need,” he said lightly. “We can leave it there--”

Kurt frowned at him. “Carole’s mother’s vase,” he reminded Blaine. “No we can’t.” He swung one leg over the side of the fountain.

“Are you going to get your clothes wet?” Blaine asked softly. Kurt looked over at him and his body flushed at the look in Blaine’s eyes - focused, intent on him, with something underneath--

“Would you prefer I go in naked?” he asked, an edge to his voice. Blaine’s eyes darkened. Kurt’s heart was stuck in his throat, and his face flushed. “Fine,” he half-whispered. 

He stood and stripped off his button-up. He was torn between looking over at Blaine and avoiding his eyes as he unbuttoned his trousers. Kurt could feel Blaine’s eyes on him, and his entire body was flushed, wanting . . . . He tried to shake the feelings away. He’d _promised_ himself. But then Kurt looked up and caught Blaine’s dark eyes, the way he was biting his bottom lip, the tight grip he had on the broken handle . . . . For a long, breathless moment, Kurt felt like he was going to get ravished. And, more than anything, he _wanted_ it.

Blaine looked away. The moment disappeared and Kurt could breathe again. 

He turned away from Blaine, dazed and only slightly conscious about his half-naked state, and climbed onto the edge of the fountain before jumping in. The water rushed over his head, lusciously cool after the heat of the day and--and _Blaine_ , and for a moment, Kurt considered just staying there, under the water, where his thoughts about Blaine would never trouble him again. His hand brushed against something sharp and he was brought back to himself. Blindly, he reached out and gathered the cracked vase in his arm before he resurfaced, feeling the sun beating down upon his head as he came up to the open air. With his eyes closed, sun on his body, submerged in cool, clean water, Kurt felt almost at peace. 

Then he opened his eyes and saw Blaine.

Blaine, who was watching him again, body tense and eyes burning. Kurt felt something in him rise up to the look on Blaine’s face and, careful of the vase in his hand, he swung himself up on the ledge of the fountain, displaying his wet, half-naked body brazenly. Blaine’s mouth parted. Kurt stared down at him and wondered what Blaine’s mouth would feel like on his skin. What would Blaine taste of? What would it be like, to be together in the open sunlight, outside, the grass on their backs and open air on their skin? Kurt thought he could see his thoughts reflected in Blaine, in his face, in the way his skin flushed and his eyes darkened. 

Kurt shook himself and looked away. The tension didn’t disappear. Without looking at Blaine, he climbed down from the fountain and gathered his clothes, pulling them over his wet underclothes with haste. They stuck in odd, uncomfortable places, but Kurt was satisfied when they were mostly on his body. Vase secured in the crook of his arm, he stalked up the path towards Blaine, still avoiding his eyes. He looked instead at Blaine’s hand, which was grasping the vase handle like it was his lifeline. Without slowing his stride, Kurt reached out and tore the handle from Blaine’s hand. For the briefest moment, their fingers brushed. 

Then Kurt moved past Blaine, towards the house, trying to calm the stuttering beat of his heart. 

He didn’t look back to see Blaine let out a long, slow breath, then approach the fountain. Blaine sat at the edge of it and lowered his hand until it barely brushed the water’s surface. For a long moment, he sat there, staring down at the calm, still surface. Then he swore under his breath and got up, walking back to the house as well. 

-

“Santana!” Rachel cried out as she spotted Santana’s dark curls. Santana turned around, a sneer on her face. Rachel ignored it. “Do you know where Kurt is? We need to practice for our duet tonight!”

Santana quirked an eyebrow. “What’re you singing, shortie?” she asked with an edge of venom. 

Rachel bit her lip. “Happy Days Are Here Again,” she murmured. “We turned it into a duet last year when he was home for Christmas . . . .”

Santana’s smile as all teeth. “How _quaint_ ,” she snapped. Rachel took a step away from her. Santana’s face cleared, then her expression turned thoughtful. “You know, Rachel, maybe _we_ should sing together.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped. “What?” she squeaked.

Santana looked amused. “I wouldn’t mind singing for your big brother,” she said. “It’d be a way to make a good impression with your family, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I _suppose_ ,” Rachel said, still bewildered. “But Kurt and I are going to sing!”

Santana shrugged. “What’s another duet? Maybe you and Kurt could sing before dinner and you and I can sing after?”

Rachel considered it. She didn’t really like Santana that much, but another duet meant another chance to show off her own considerable talent. And Rachel never said no to showing off her talent.

“Alright,” she said, still suspicious. “I _suppose_. But what will we sing?”

She knew plenty of duets for men and women - they were all mostly romantic, of course, but that didn’t matter since she was just singing them with Kurt. Rachel was less immediately well-versed on two women singing duets together, though she supposed she could probably come up with a few songs before dinner. 

Santana’s smile was slow and . . . Rachel searched for the word. She eyed the curve of Santana’s lips, much redder than her own, then realized: sensual. Santana, Rachel thought, almost nervously, was very sensual. 

“You leave that to me, doll,” Santana purred. “I have just the thing.”

-

Blaine buried his face in his hands. Inside of his room, safe and alone, he allowed the tension to drain from his shoulders. He kept seeing Kurt in his mind’s eye, Kurt half-naked and wet, that damned defiant gleam in his bright eyes, as if Blaine was the impertinent one when Kurt had just dove into a fountain in his underclothes--in his _underclothes_ \-- 

Blaine dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the image away. He couldn’t think like that. Not about Kurt. Kurt, who had been his childhood best friend, Kurt who was the son of the Lord of the manor, Kurt who was so handsome and sharp-tongued and intelligent and _musical_ , _God_ \--

_You can’t think like that_ , Blaine told himself sternly, lifting his head to stare blankly out of his window, where the sky was starting to grow darker. _You know you can’t._

“I wish I could,” he admitted aloud, safe in his solitude. “I wish I could just tell him . . . .”

_What?_ a voice inside of his head mocked. _That you want him so badly your hands shake?_

Blaine shook his head. “No,” he said, out loud again, half-whispering. “It’s not just--”

_Oh you can wax poetic about his voice and his intelligence all you want, Blaine Anderson, but you know as well as I do that you would give anything to fuck him. To have him fuck you._

Blaine shuddered, a coil of something sweet and hot tightening in his stomach, the low hum or arousal that he’d become accustomed to from the constant presence of Kurt. Kurt, who made his blood boil and his hands sweat and everything in him hum with pure _want_ \--

“You can’t have him, Blaine,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “You know you can’t.”

Blaine sighed heavily. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his typewriter, half-finished poem still sitting on the scroll. Blaine was horrible at poetry, but something about the process of writing it soothed him. An idea occurred to him and Blaine hastily ripped away the last sheet of paper, quickly replacing it with a blank sheet. He sat down in front of the typewriter, considering the keys carefully. Hesitantly, he began to type out:

_Dear Kurt,_

_I am terribly sorry for our confrontation at the fountain. I don’t know what came over me. It must be the heat, or just your prese--_

Blaine ripped the paper out of the scroll, crumpled it up and threw it in his trash bin. Not what he wanted to say, not at all. Putting another piece of paper in, he frowned heavily. What _did_ he want to say to Kurt? He cracked his fingers, then started typing, his words coming unplanned and unformed.

_Kurt,_

_I’m sorry. Do you regret seeing what you did? Is that why you won’t look at me anymore, or talk to me? Is it because you were disgusted or because you want it too? I want to ask, but you keep me at arms length--_

Blaine ripped that sheet away and crumpled it as well, heart beating too fast. Those were questions that he wanted to ask Kurt, but he didn’t--didn’t know _how_. The words, even on paper, scared him to death. The thought of Kurt reading them made his ears burn with embarrassment. 

_Dear Kurt,_

_Can’t we go back to what we were? I miss you. I don’t have anyone to talk to except for my mother and she doesn’t understa--_

_Kurt,_

_Sometimes, at night, I dream of you. You’re so beautiful, Kurt, and God, seeing you today, wet and half-naked--_

_Dear Mister Hummel,_

_I formally apologize for any misconduct or inappropriate behavior I may have directed towards your person this afternoon at your family’s fountain--_

Blaine groaned heavily, tossing his last paper over his head. He could hear it fall to the floor, but he didn’t bother getting up to get it. Maybe he should just give up. It wasn’t like Kurt was expecting any type of apology from him - and it wasn’t like Blaine really knew what he was apologizing for, not really. Nothing had happened between them at the fountain, or, at least, nothing tangible had. Blaine closed his eyes, remembering.

Kurt was so pale. Blaine had been surprised by that. Kurt spent a lot of time outdoors, after all, walking with his father or spending time with Jesse or Rachel. But his skin was still much lighter than Blaine’s, almost translucent in the sunshine. It made his dark hair, striking eyes and red lips stand out all the more. And seeing all that skin bared all at once, seeing it wet, water dripping off of Kurt’s chin, following the curve of his collar-bone, turning his white underclothes almost see-through, outlining his--

Blaine opened his eyes with a gasp. His body was throbbing. Without thinking, he turned to the typewriter.

_Kurt,_

_Sometimes, in my dreams, I suck your cock._

Blaine stared at the line for a long moment, then laughed, loud and sharp and desperate. _What am I doing?_ he thought, the laughter diffusing the tension that had been building up with every failed letter to Kurt.

He took the message off and, as he was about to crumple it like the others, hesitated. Carefully, almost reverently, he folded it neatly and set it down next to his typewriter. Then he turned back to the machine and started typing.

_Dear Kurt,_

_I am terribly sorry for our situation today. Can you please forgive me?_

_Sincerely,_   
_Blaine_

Blaine leaned back in his chair and eyed the note carefully. It was casual, it mentioned nothing specific and it was apologetic. It would do, though it didn’t say the dozens of things Blaine wanted to tell Kurt. He took the note and folded it, setting it by the typewriter.

“Blaine?” his mother said, popping her head into the room. Blaine was extremely relieved his last note was carefully disposed of. His mother eyed the messy room and crumpled paper balls critically. “What are you doing in here?”

Blaine just smiled at her. She rolled his eyes at him and beckoned him. 

“Come on,” she said impatiently. “You’re having dinner with the Hummels tonight and you need to look somewhat presentable. No son of mine will be going up to that family’s table looking like a ragamuffin.”

Blaine laughed. “I still have my suit from last year,” he said, standing. “I’m sure it will still fit.”

His mother smiled at him with approval. “Now we just need to do something about your hair,” she said, eyeing his curls critically.

Blaine cringed and resigned himself to an afternoon of preparation. As his mother led him out, he made a mental note to grab his letter to Kurt before he left.

-

Kurt stared out the window, hitting random notes on the piano, and willed Sam to arrive.

The sun was starting to dip, edging closer and closer to the horizon, and Sam had yet to come cantering up their road. Kurt was beginning to think that his father had gotten the date wrong or that something had happened to Sam and his friend. Kurt frowned at the thought of Sam’s friend and wondered, not for the first time, why Sam had never mentioned this David Karofsky.

Sam had left to carry on their father’s business assets in England over a year ago and Kurt had only heard from him in letters and phone calls since. Kurt, though he never told anyone, missed Sam something fierce. Sam was only older than him by a year and they’d been inseparable as kids. They’d even gone to the same college together--not that they’d had a choice, with Yale being his father’s alma mater. Burt Hummel loved Yale so much that he’d even paid the way for his poor servant to go there to study pre-law. Kurt remembered a few weeks ago when he’d overheard his father and Blaine talking about attending law school to become a real lawyer. Kurt shook his head. _No thoughts of Blaine,_ he reminded himself sternly. 

He looked down at the piano and sighed. He used to practice on it every day, but it had been a long time since he’d even touched it. Hesitantly, he started a tune. 

_“In the evening, when the lights are low,”_ he sang softly, _“I’m so lonely I could cry.”_

Outside, there was the faint sound of horses on the road. Kurt’s hands jerked on the piano, cacophony of noise loud in the empty room as he turned to the window, waiting. A huge smile overtook his face as two riders came into view, one of them with very blond hair. Immediately, he started running through the house to the front door, so he could meet Sam on the lawn.

Kurt stumbled out of the house around the exact moment Sam pulled his horse to a stop. Without pausing, Sam dropped down from his horse and opened his arms, ready for Kurt to hug him to death. Kurt gripped Sam’s waist tightly and buried his head in Sam’s shoulder. He smelled like horses and sweat and _Sam_ and Kurt felt like he was so happy he could burst. 

He pulled away a little to take in Sam’s face, which had barely changed. The last of his baby fat had melted away, but everything else was the same - full lips, bright, mischevious eyes and a head of very blond hair. 

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Kurt said, kissing his brother on both cheeks as he’d learned to do in his French classes. “It’s so good to see your face again after so long.”

Sam immediately returned the gesture of affection. “The same to you, little brother,” he murmured against Kurt’s cheek. “Although, I must say, I think out of the two of us, you’ve changed the most.”

Kurt flushed. He knew that the final stages of puberty had finally hit in the year Sam had been gone, but he hadn’t thought he’d changed that much. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your brother, Hummel, or am I going to sit watching you two hug all night?” 

Kurt jumped, startled and turned to see a large man eyeing him with amusement. He was big and bulky, with hair cropped short in a military way. He was fairly good-looking, but something about his face - the look in his eyes, perhaps, or the wry curl of his mouth - made Kurt a little uneasy. It was, he acknowledged, the same sort of feeling he got around Santana. 

“This must be the infamous David Karofsky,” Kurt murmured, pulling away from Sam to offer Karofsky his hand. “It’s a pleasure to have a face to put with the name, at last.”

Karofsky smiled at him. It was a smile that made a chill creep up Kurt’s spine - all oil and slick, greasy, slyness. “The pleasure’s all mine, Kurt,” Karofsky said, taking Kurt’s hand firmly. His hands were huge and strong - much stronger than Kurt’s. “Sam here can never seem to shut up about you.”

Kurt sent a pleased smile at a very red Sam. “I hope he only says good things,” he laughed, turning back to Karofsky. “Otherwise I’ll have to think of some way to punish him.”

“Only the very best,” Karofsky assured him, releasing Kurt’s hand. “Now, Sam, if you could show me your stables? We should cool the horses down.”

“Ah, of course,” Sam said. “Kurt could you let father and Carole know that I’ve arrived? I’m sure they were waiting anxiously for me.”

“Yes, brother,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes. “Hurry in, though. Rachel is dying to see you, and I don’t mean that figuratively.” Sam chuckled.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” he said, then leaned in to peck Kurt’s cheek. “It is so good to be home,” he said, pulling away, smiling widely. Then he turned to Karofsky. “Come on, Dave, the stables are this way. We’ll be up soon, Kurt!”

Kurt watched as they turned and headed away. He waited until they were out of sight before he headed into the house to let his family know that the prodigal son had returned, smiling all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Mood Indigo, originally by Duke Ellington, this version by Frank Sinatra.


	3. sometimes, in my dreams

“So how’s work, Sam?” Kurt asked as they lounged inside of the house, seated on couches.

The sun was beginning to set and Carole had popped in ten minutes ago to announce dinner would be ready in an hour and a half. Kurt very carefully kept his expression controlled when Carole had also mentioned Blaine would be joining them.

“Good, so far,” Sam answered with an easy smile. “There’s been some problems due to the . . . tension in Europe, but everything is running smoothly.”

Kurt’s brow furrowed. “Tension?” he asked cautiously.

Sam waved a hand. “Nothing to be truly concerned about,” he said. “It’s just the bitter murmurings of the losers from the Great War, that’s all. With time, it will be forgotten.”

Kurt bit his lip. “You don’t think there’ll be another war, do you?” he asked. He didn’t remember the Great War, but his father had fought in it and had told Kurt stories about it when he was growing up. 

“No,” Karofsky spoke up. Kurt glanced at him, his brow wrinkling a bit at the way Karofsky was staring intently at him. “As Sam said, it’s just left-over tension. It will sort itself out in the end.”

Kurt relaxed a bit. Sam and Karofsky had both spent more time in Europe than he had - surely if they thought there would be no war, there wouldn’t be. Kurt could only hope.

“How are things for you, little brother?” Sam asked, grinning. “Found a girl that will have you yet?”

Kurt noticed Karofsky tense out of the corner of his eye and frowned. “I’m more concerned with my studies, Sam, you know that,” he said. “And now that school is over, I need to focus on getting work.”

“Is your plan still to move to New York in the fall?” Sam asked, grin falling away. 

Kurt nodded. “Father is still having trouble dealing with it, but that would be the plan.”

“I’ll talk to him for you,” Sam said. Kurt blinked in surprise and Sam laughed. “Oh, come now, _Kurt_. I’m your big brother, you think I never realized just how much you like performing? And you’re damn good at it too. It’d be a shame for you to give that up because Father doesn’t want to let you go.”

Kurt flushed and smiled at Sam warmly. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That means a lot to me.”

With Carole and Sam on his side, Kurt felt much more secure about convincing his father to let him go to New York.

“Performing?” Karofsky asked and Kurt started - he’d forgotten Karofsky was in the room.

“Kurt here is a regular showman,” Sam said proudly. “Songbird and everything too. Hey, Kurt, are you and Rachel singing for us tonight?”

Kurt laughed. “You know us too well,” he said. “Rachel insisted on it.”

“What song?” Karofsky asked, leaning forward in his seat. Kurt met his eyes. They were blue, he realized, and very focused on him. 

“Happy Days Are Here Again,” Kurt answered, still uneasy, “and we’re, um, mixing it together with another song. Get Happy, from the _Nine-Fifteen Revue_?”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” Karofsky said, scooting even closer. Was Kurt imagining the way his eyes dipped down, as if to watch Kurt’s mouth? “Mixing two songs together, that is.”

“It was my idea,” Kurt said, smiling a bit, trying to shake of his odd tension. 

Karofsky was just asking questions, actually acting interested about his friend’s strange brother, which was a change from Sam’s childhood friends. They’d always viewed Kurt as something of an oddity. Kurt had to stop making something out of nothing. Karofsky was just being polite. “They actually work quite well together.”

“I insist you give us a solo while I’m here,” Karofsky murmured. “Then I’ll get the chance to say I heard you perform before you make it big, yeah?”

Kurt swallowed. Karofsky was being polite, he _was_ , but there was something--off about him. Like underneath his polite, charming words, there was some sort of slick greasiness clinging that couldn’t quite be hidden. Kurt couldn’t quite bring himself to like Karofsky.

The door opened and Kurt turned away from Karofsky with relief to see Santana coming in, dressed in a pale blue dress, her hair braided away from her face. She stopped upon seeing them there, her eyes widening, then narrowing with interest.

“Santana, you remember Sam,” Kurt said, standing to take her elbow. “And this is Sam’s friend from work, David Karofsky. Karofsky, this is our cousin, Santana Puckerman.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Karofsky said, standing to bow to her. Santana curtsied in response, surprisingly graceful.

“We were just discussing the entertainment tonight,” Kurt said, attempting to draw Santana in to the conversation. 

Santana smiled. “Did Rachel tell you that we’re singing a duet?” she asked.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Are you now? How on Earth did you manage that? Rachel barely lets me sing a duet with her, and I’m her own brother.”

“She doesn’t even let _me_ sing with her,” Sam cut in, laughing. “She says our voices don’t suit each other.”

Santana’s smile deepened. “I think she just wants to make me feel at home here,” she said. “You see, both my brother and I just moved here, due to our father being a drunken, abandoning bastard.”

Silence. Kurt sighed heavily. “Santana,” he said tiredly, “language, please. We have a guest.”

“Oh, I’ve heard worse,” Karofsky said, smiling at Santana. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said to her, more gently. “I’ve met men who are like him and I’ve never much cared for them.”

Santana’s eyes brightened and she moved closer, coming to sit by Karofsky on the couch. “Why are you visiting with us, Mr. Karofsky?” she asked.

Karofsky turned a little to face her. “My family’s dead, Miss Puckerman,” he explained. “Sam asked me to come with him out of pity, I guess, but I was glad to come all the same.”

Sam laughed. “Not pity, Karofsky! It’s nice to have a friend with me while I brave the familial waters once more.”

Kurt reached across and slapped his shoulder. “We’re not that scary!” he teased. “Or has Europe softened your bravery, dear brother?”

“Ah, your words wound me!” Sam proclaimed, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “I see you’ve yet to lose the sharp edge of your tongue, Kurt.”

“I believe Yale only sharpened it further,” Kurt agreed. 

They shared smiles. Kurt looked back at Karofsky, who was back to talking to Santana in a lowered voice. They were both smiling. Kurt bit his lip, uneasy for reasons he couldn’t name.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Santana,” Sam murmured, taking Kurt’s elbow and leading him to the window, away from the other two. “She’s grown into a lady when I wasn’t looking.”

“Maybe too much of one,” Kurt muttered, glancing back. Santana laughed, her head tilting back, exposing her throat.

Sam chuckled. “Let her play her wiles, little brother. Karofsky knows better than to take her up on it.”

Kurt frowned. It was true that Karofsky wasn’t looking at Santana with desire at all, but there was _something_ in his face, some emotion that Kurt couldn’t put a name to, and he didn’t trust it. And Santana, she was flirting, but there was something--calculating behind it, something cold and ruthless that wasn’t there when other women Kurt knew flirted with men they liked. 

He found himself hoping that Karofksy would leave soon, even if Sam found his company soothing. There was something dangerous brewing in Karofsky, even if Kurt didn’t know what, and he wanted it far away from him and his family.

-

Rachel pouted as she stomped across the yard, arms crossed over her chest. Santana was so _mean_ and she kept telling Rachel to sing more softly and to stop making ridiculous faces. Rachel wanted to punch her in the nose but her father had told that she should stop doing that and she had a feeling he would dislike it more when it was her cousin and not some third-rate bully at her school who pulled her hair. And it wasn’t _her_ fault Santana had chosen a song that Rachel naturally empathized with and thus had to act out as she sang it. 

“Stupid Santana,” she muttered. 

“The new house guests giving you trouble, jitterbug?” 

Rachel jumped and spun on her heel. “Blaine!” she cried, launching herself at him. Blaine laughed and picked her up, spinning her around. When he set her down, Rachel immediately started talking: “Santana wants to sing with me too but she’s so _mean_ Blaine and Kurt never tells me to sing more softly or to stop making strange faces--”

Blaine smiled at her. Rachel felt her face start to flush. “You sing wonderfully, Rachel,” he promised her, and Rachel’s flush deepened. “I’m sure Santana is just . . . trying to get situated. Don’t be too hard on her, okay? She’s been through a lot from what your parents told me.”

Rachel pouted. “That doesn’t mean she’s allowed to be _mean_ ,” she muttered.

Blaine laughed. “I’m sure you gave as good as you got, doll.” Rachel blushed again, remembering the remarks she’d made about Santana’s hair. Blaine considered her for a moment, then said, “Hey, Rachel, would you mind doing a favor for me?” Rachel perked up as Blaine handed her an envelope. “Can you give this to Kurt before dinner starts?”

Rachel stared at the envelope, confused. Blaine wanted her to give it to _Kurt_? But why? What was in it? Did it have something to do with the strange scene at the fountain? Burning with curiosity, she carefully took the envelope from Blaine’s hand, folding it in her fingers.

“Of course!” she said, her voice too high and breathy. She immediately adjusted her tone as she added, “It’s nothing at all!” 

Blaine grinned at her. “Thanks, doll! Let them know I’ll be there in a few, alright?”

As Rachel turned to run back to the house, she almost felt guilty that she planned to read the letter before it ever reached Kurt’s eyes. But still, she reasoned, it wasn’t like Blaine didn’t realize that could happen.

-

Blaine watched as Rachel ran away, a fond smile on his face. Rachel had had a crush on him ever since she was old enough to _have_ crushes, but Blaine found it endearing. Rachel as a whole was endearing - loud and personable, with a voice that would make her famous someday. Blaine loved her a lot--as a little sister. Even if he had been attracted to women, Rachel was not only too young for him but also someone he considered family. He could never feel towards her what he felt towards--

Well, Kurt.

Blaine continued down the path, whistling lightly. He wondered how Kurt would take his message, if he would even respond to--

Blaine paused, mid-step, a stray memory playing out in his head. After he’d been fitted for his suit, he’d gone back to his room to grab his letter and stick it in an envelope. At the time, he’d been in a hurry and he’d just grabbed the first folded piece of paper by his typewriter. Suddenly, with vicious, sickening clarity, he remembered the other letter he’d written, the one he’d also, for reasons only God knew, folded as well. The one that--that--

Blaine closed his eyes. He’d set the filthy letter on the--had it been the right or the left side of the typewriter? He strained his brain to remember and then, with a sinking heart, realized it had been the left. The same side he’d grabbed the letter he’d just sent off with Rachel from. 

“Rachel!” Blaine half-screamed. He could still see her head, but she was too far away to hear him and by the time he reached her, even running at his fastest, she would’ve already reached the house.

Blaine felt a spike of panic. He’d considered the possibility that Rachel would read the letter, but the one he’d _thought_ he was sending had been innocent enough that Blaine hadn’t worried about it. Now though, now Rachel had--had--

“Fuck,” Blaine breathed.

-

Rachel tore the letter open as soon as she was out of Blaine’s sight. Eagerly, she unfolded the page and scanned the words. Her brow furrowed.

_Kurt,_

_Sometimes, in my dreams, I suck your cock._

It wasn’t signed.

Rachel knew--sort of knew-- _vaguely knew_ what that word meant. A blush crept up her neck. What did it mean, though, that _Blaine_ had sent it to _Kurt_? She didn’t know that women and men could even do--do _that_ , let alone a man and another man! Wasn’t it forbidden? What kind of--pervert was Blaine, that he wanted to do such unnatural and strange things with her _brother_? That he _dreamed_ about it?

Rachel slowly folded the paper back up, her heart hammering in her throat. Should she give it to Kurt? Part of her wanted to, just to see what his face would look like, how he’d react. Another part, a larger part, shied away from the thought of that. She remembered the fountain and wondered for a moment, chest tightening, if Kurt would react with disgust or--or--

“Rachel?”

Rachel jumped and spun around on her heel, wide-eyed. Kurt stood behind her, dressed in sharp black suit, a grey-blue bowtie around his neck, bringing out the color in his eyes. The suit made Kurt look elegant and older, more mature.

“Rachel, what is it?” Kurt asked with concern, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Rachel flinched and Kurt drew back, brow furrowing. “What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing!” Rachel said quickly, her voice too high and breathy, the way it always got when she lied. She prayed that Kurt wouldn’t notice. Before she could argue herself out of it, she thrust the piece of paper at Kurt. “Blaine said to give this to you.”

Kurt’s mouth softened with surprise. “Oh,” he murmured, taking the note from Rachel’s hand gingerly, as if he expected it to bite him. 

Rachel watched as he stared down at it for a long moment before flipping it open. She almost wanted to look away as he scanned the words, as a blush rose up his neck, curling around his ears, as his eyes darkened, not with disgust or anger but--

“I have to get ready,” Rachel said hurriedly.

“Rachel!” Kurt cried as she turned on her heel and started to run. “Rachel, wait! Did you read this! Rachel!”

_Yes,_ Rachel thought as she continued to run through the house, up the stairs, _yes I read it, Kurt, and I could accept him wanting you, but how can you want him back? How could you do that to Father, to Mother, to--_

“To me,” Rachel whispered as she slowed to a halt. 

She had been in love with Blaine since she was a child. The thought of him not just rejecting her for another, older girl, but for her _very male_ brother pinched her heart until it hurt. And Kurt knew how she felt about Blaine, because he was the one she’d always confided in, and yet he still--he still--

_Wants Blaine,_ Rachel thought, shivering a little. _Kurt still desires him._ She didn’t fully understand the look in Kurt’s eyes as he read that note, but she’d enough films to realize that it wasn’t simple friendship on Kurt’s mind. 

“How can they desire each other?” Rachel whispered as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. “They’re both men.”

She knew that men and women could desire each other, that it could only happen after they were legally wed. But she had never heard anyone speak of men loving other men, or women other women. Was it normal? Did it happen to people besides Kurt and Blaine, or were they just . . . strange? _What will my father say?_ she wondered. _What about mother?_

“Rachel?” A knock on her door. Rachel didn’t think she’d ever be so grateful to hear Santana’s voice instead of Kurt’s. “We need to talk!”

“What is it, Santana?” Rachel asked, moving forward to open her door.

Santana stood in her doorway, still not dressed for dinner, eyebrow raised. “You stormed out before we could make our final song selection,” she said.

Rachel sighed heavily. Music seemed like the least important thing going on right now. “You can just sing what you like,” she muttered. “Do a solo.”

Santana’s stared at her before her lips spread in a wide smile. “Really?” she asked, happier than Rachel had ever seen her. Rachel nodded. “Well then! What brought about this change of heart, doll?”

Rachel bit her lip. She didn’t have many friends, and none of them were female. The only person she’d ever trusted with her confident thoughts was Kurt, and she couldn’t talk to him about the thoughts whizzing about in her head. But . . . she didn’t really trust Santana that much. Santana was all smirks and sensuality, too cruel and confidently rude to be a bosom friend. 

Santana did, however, seem to know more about the desires of adults than Rachel did.

“Can you keep a secret?” Rachel asked.

-

“It said _cock_ on it?” Santana asked, her voice interested and without scorn. 

Rachel nodded, blushing furiously. “It said Blaine wanted to--” she bit her lip.

“Suck Cousin Kurt’s cock,” Santana said, sounding more thoughtful than disgusted.

“Can men even do--do _that_ with each other?” Rachel blurted out. “I thought only men and women--”

Santana waved a hand. “I’ve heard stories,” she murmured. “Of men who lie with other men, and the same for women. It doesn’t happen often, and it’s--it’s very looked down upon, considering how freaky it is, but it does happen.”

“Oh,” Rachel whispered. Then, voicing her hidden fear, “Do you think Kurt--”

“I don’t know,” Santana murmured. “Has he ever been into any girls?”

Rachel wanted to say yes, to list of Kurt’s girlfriends but--

Kurt had never had a girlfriend. Had never even wanted one, for as long as Rachel could remember.

“No,” she said quietly, “he hasn’t.”

Santana hummed. “Then he might be freaky like Blaine. Are they-- _together_ in that way? Have you noticed them acting more friendly together lately?”

“No,” Rachel said immediately, then added, hesitantly, “Well--”

“Yes?” Santana asked, eyes gleaming with interest.

“It’s just--Kurt and Blaine were by the fountain yesterday and they acted weird, that’s all. And I feel like they’ve been fighting, but I don’t know why.”

“Fighting, huh?” Santana murmured. “Maybe Kurt isn’t a queer then. Maybe he doesn’t want Blaine’s attentions.”

Rachel filled up with hope. “You really think so?”

Santana shrugged. “If he was, why wouldn’t he just be with Blaine? From what I’ve heard, queers rut like animals in heat. They can’t help themselves.”

Rachel’s entire face was burning. No one had ever used language like that in front of her. “Oh,” she muttered. “Then we need to stop Blaine!” she proclaimed. “Maybe I could show the letter to Father--”

“Kurt has it,” Santana reminded her.

“I could steal it from his room,” Rachel said, chewing her lip. “Father wouldn’t like a--a queer going after Kurt, he could kick Blaine off the grounds!”

Santana raised an eyebrow, her lip curling in amusement. “How vicious,” she murmured. “Haven’t you known this chump since you were in diapers, doll?”

Rachel felt guilt threaten to sweep over her, but she pushed it down. “Kurt’s my _brother_ ,” she insisted. “If he doesn’t want Blaine’s attentions, then Blaine needs to either go or stop pushing!”

Santana shrugged. “If you say so. When are you going to take the letter back?”

Rachel frowned, thinking it over. “During dinner,” she decided. “I’ll go to the bathroom or something. And then afterwards, I’ll bring it to Father.” She looked over at Santana, who was smiling and nodding. “You won’t say anything about this to anyone, will you?” she asked nervously. “Not until I talk to Father?”

Santana pressed a finger to her lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”


	4. summertime, and the living is easy

Blaine took a deep breath as he stood outside of the Hummel’s front door. He still didn’t know if Rachel had read the note, or if she’d given it to Kurt yet--he winced to think of what Kurt’s reaction to it would be. Still, he’d already been invited to dinner and Mr. Hummel would probably be disappointed if he didn’t show up. Plus, he liked Sam and it would be good to see him again. And, of course, the chance to see Kurt was never anything Blaine could turn down.

So he took another deep breath and carefully knocked.

There was a long pause before the door was flung open to reveal Kurt. Blaine couldn’t have stopped himself from staring if he’d wanted to.

Kurt was usually a sharp dresser, it was true, but he tended to stay away from suits unless they were required. But this suit fit him exactly, clinging to broad shoulders and tucking it tightly around his trim waist. The dark charcoal color enhanced the pale skin Blaine had admired earlier and his bow-tie - a pale blue-grey color - brought out the extraordinary hue of his eyes. For a long moment, Blaine went breathless at the sight of him.

“Blaine,” Kurt said, his voice flat.

Blaine knew without asking that Kurt had gotten his note. “Kurt, I’m so--” he shook his head, feeling a blush climb up his neck. “I promise you, that note was a mistake. I never meant to send it to you.”

Kurt eyed him, an odd expression on his face. “Follow me,” he said finally, taking Blaine’s hand in his own. 

A shock travelled under Blaine’s skin at Kurt’s touch, and Blaine shivered. Kurt led them into his father’s private library and shut the door behind them. The library was dark and quiet, with only a single lamp lighting the room. The shadows played on Kurt’s sharp features, making him even more impossibly beautiful. Blaine ached to touch him.

“What did you mean by that note?” Kurt asked.

Blaine was blushing again, he could feel it. “I--um--I didn’t mean to send it to you--”

“That’s not what I asked, Blaine,” Kurt told him, tone sharp. “What did you _mean_ by it?”

Blaine, flustered and feeling defensive, snapped, “I don’t think there’s anything unclear about wanting to suck your cock, Kurt.”

Silence. Kurt stared at him and Blaine felt his blush deepen.

“You . . . want me? Like that?” Kurt sounded nonplussed.

Blaine met his eyes evenly, heart beating in his throat. “Yes.”

There was a long pause. Blaine waited for Kurt to condemn him, to yell at him, to throw him out of the house on his ass. But the moments went by and Kurt continued to stare at him, eyes wide and--not horrified. No, his entire face was full of confusion and surprise, but there was no horror there. Slowly, hope began to blossom in Blaine’s chest, a hope that he’d kept buried ever since Kurt had--

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Kurt blinked.

“What?”

“For what you saw at Yale,” Blaine explained. He didn’t miss the way Kurt tensed, his eyes narrowing. “It was stupid of Jeremiah and I to do-- _that_ in such a public area--”

“Jeremiah?” Kurt asked, so sharply that Blaine jumped. “Is he your--lover?”

Blaine shook his head and Kurt relaxed. “He was the only other boy I found who was--like me. We learned from each other, but we never really got along very well. He’s getting married in a few months, actually.”

Kurt frowned. “But isn’t he--”

“Yes,” Blaine sighed. “But he feels it’s his duty to have children. Kurt, what do _you_ want from me?” he burst out, unable to keep it in anymore. “Why have you dragged me in here?”

Kurt looked away. "Blaine," he said, biting his lip. Blaine, distracted by the sight of it, nearly missed what Kurt said next, "I don't know what to do." 

Blaine stared at him. Was Kurt--

"Kurt, are you blushing?" he asked, moving closer.

Kurt squirmed where he stood, blush deepening. Blaine, enthralled at the sight of it, reached out to touch Kurt's cheek. They both froze at the contact.

"Blaine," Kurt whispered, reaching out and clasping Blaine's wrist. "I don't know what to do." _Show me_ his eyes said.

Blaine moved forward, into Kurt's personal space. Hesitantly, reminding himself that Kurt had probably never done this with a woman, let alone a man, he reached out and tucked his fingers under Kurt's chin. Blaine smothered a wry smile when he realized that _he_ would be the one who would have to lean up to kiss Kurt. Carefully, he perched on his tip-toes, firmly holding Kurt's chin in his fingers, and brushed their mouths together.

Kurt's mouth was soft, open with surprise. Blaine kissed him again and then, unable to stop himself, again. Kurt placed a hand on Blaine's shoulder, his touch light, tentative. Blaine deepened their kiss, emboldened by Kurt's response, hesitant as it was. Kurt's mouth opened, either from shock or--something else, and Blaine grinned as he licked at Kurt's lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth. He twined their tongues together lazily, grin deepening at the breathy sound Kurt made, then pulled away, taking in Kurt's flushed face and hazy eyes greedily. 

Kurt reached for him before Blaine could move, and they were kissing again. Blaine bit lightly at Kurt's lip, raising an eyebrow at the moan it earned him. Careful to keep his movements slow, he reached for Kurt's waist, drawing him closer until they were flush against one another. Blaine moaned, low in his throat, at the feeling of Kurt's cock through the layers of clothing, hard and warm and so _close_. 

Kurt gasped and pulled away, his head thrown back. His flush spread to his neck and Blaine couldn't ignore an invitation like that. He nipped lightly underneath Kurt's chin before pressing open-mouthed, wet kisses to his throat, shuddering a little at the sounds Kurt was making - high, breathy moans, whines, _Blaine's name_ \--

Blaine, still pressing kisses to Kurt's neck, pushed them backwards until Kurt was sprawled against a bookcase, his legs splayed open. Blaine moved neatly into that space, trapping Kurt there, and moaned loudly when Kurt's cock pressed hot and heavy against his hip.

" _Blaine_ \--" Kurt whined, rolling his hips. "Blaine, _please_ \--"

Blaine groaned and shifted so that their cocks were aligned through heavy fabric, panting at the sensation of having Kurt rubbing against him, Kurt moaning his name. He rolled his hips, keeping Kurt pinned against the bookcase, smiling a bit at the way Kurt wriggled, desperate for more friction, more pressure, _more_ \--

Blaine knew how he felt.

"Can I?" he said, his hand dipping to the button of Kurt's pants.

Kurt hesitated a moment, then nodded, his eyes wide and hazy with arousal. Blaine shivered a bit, then undid Kurt's pants with a neat, practiced motion that came from many college trysts. He dipped his hand into Kurt's pants without further warning, sealing his hand around the hard, warm length of Kurt's cock.

Kurt's knees trembled and Blaine pinned him more securely against the bookcase as he moved his hand, slow and steady at first, lingering over the head, learning the thickness and weight by touch. Kurt's cock was longer than his, and a touch thinner. Blaine wondered for a brief moment what it would feel like in his ass and shivered. That would be for another night, he decided.

"Blaine," Kurt panted into his ear. "Blaine, I want to--"

Blaine jumped in surprise as Kurt's hands fell to his waistband, tugging at his pants. Kurt pressed one of his hands against Blaine's crotch, pressing his cock through the cloth, and Blaine rolled his hips into it, groaning at the pressure. 

"Yes, Kurt, _yes_ \--" he said.

Kurt's hand scrambled at the button of his pants, but he couldn't undo it. Kurt hissed under his breath, and Blaine laughed, reaching down with his free hand to undo it himself. Kurt gave him a kiss as thanks, and Blaine grinned. Then Kurt's hands dipped into his pants and Blaine threw his head back with a moan, his hand stuttering as Kurt closed his fingers around Blaine's cock. His touch was soft and unsure.

"Tighter, Kurt," Blaine panted, remembering to move his own hand. "Faster, god, _please_ \--"

Kurt bit his lip, eyebrows knotting together in concentration, and then, suddenly, his fingers closed tightly around Blaine's cock. Blaine's hips bucked as Kurt pumped him fast and hard.

"Yes, _please_ \--" Blaine moaned.

Kurt dipped his head and captured Blaine's mouth in a kiss as he reached out with his free hand to capture Blaine's, tangling their fingers together. Blaine could feel Kurt's smile and for a moment his heart felt too big for his chest because Kurt was _here_ , with him, _willing_ to be with him--

Blaine broke away from Kurt's mouth, panting as he pressed more closely to Kurt's body. Kurt made a sound of protest.

"Blaine, I can't," he whined, looking aggravated. His hand was twisted at an awkward angle and his grip loosened.

"I want to rub on you," Blaine murmured, leaning close to Kurt's ear. Unable to stop himself, he leaned in and nipped at it. Kurt moaned. "Is that--"

"Yes, yes _please_ \--" Kurt gasped.

Blaine smiled. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from Kurt's cock, smiling at Kurt's groan at the loss. He shook his hips until his pants were caught around the knees, pressed against Kurt's body, groaning at the feeling of their cocks rubbing together.

"Blaine, that--" Kurt gasped, his free hand grasping at Blaine's neck, threading through the short hairs on his nape. 

" _Yes_ ," Blaine groaned, thrusting a bit and moaning as starts exploded behind his eyes at the friction. 

"Blaine, faster--" Kurt panted, his own hips shifting desperately. 

Blaine kept thrusting, but it wasn't _enough_ , he just wanted--

Blaine tried to shift the angle of his hips, searching for _more_ , and his cock slipped under Kurt's, rubbing at the smooth skin behind his balls, between his ass cheeks. Blaine froze for a moment and looked up at Kurt, who stared at him, blue irises only a ring around huge pupils. Blaine gave an experimental thrust, groaning at the slickness, the feeling of sliding between Kurt's _ass_ _cheeks_ , knowing that changing the angle just a bit would mean sliding _into_ Kurt--

"Blaine," Kurt whispered. "Blaine, _please_ \--"

There was a click as the door opened.

Kurt and Blaine froze. Blaine's heart thundered in his chest as he turned, slowly.

Rachel stood there, eyes huge and horrified. Blaine's stared at her, horror spreading throughout his body. Kurt's fingers were gripping his so tightly that his hand was starting to go numb.

"Rachel," Kurt said, his voice hoarse and, _God_ , still aroused. "We'll be in the parlor shortly."

"Kurt--" Rachel said, still full of horror.

"Rachel, please," Kurt said, his voice breaking. "Please, just go in the parlor."

Rachel opened her mouth, looking ready to argue, but then closed it again. She shot a dark look at Blaine and then turned on her heel, storming out of the room.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked, turning Blaine's head so that there were looking at each other. Blaine felt like he was in a state of shock. His arousal had disappeared, and he could feel that Kurt's was slowly doing the same.

"Fuck," Blaine breathed. "Fuck, she'll tell your father--"

Kurt kissed him, light and unsure. "She won't if I ask her not to," he promised. 

Blaine pressed his head against Kurt's shoulder. Kurt's arms draped over his shoulders in a loose hug. Blaine chuckled weakly. 

"As far as first times go, this wasn't the best," he joked weakly.

Kurt's chuckle was all warmth. "You can make up for it next time," he said. 

Blaine pulled away, glancing up at him. "Next time?" he asked hopefully.

Kurt smiled down at him, looking so beautiful it was almost painful. "Next time," he agreed.

-

Rachel's hands shook as she hurried out of the library.

Blaine and Kurt--

_Blaine and Kurt_ \--

A violent shake overtook her body as she remembered the scene she'd walked into - Kurt, pinned against a bookcase, Blaine's pants around his knees, _thrusting_ , and Rachel didn't even know how men and women did--did _that_ , but it had _looked_ like Blaine had been, had been-- Rachel shivered.

Blaine had tried to rape her brother.

_Kurt didn't want it,_ Rachel thought with determination. _He's not like Blaine, he's not a freak. He can't be. He likes girls, he doesn't like Blaine_.

She hurried into the parlor. Everyone was already gathered on the furniture, chatting idly. Jesse was there, as well as Sam and his friend whose name Rachel couldn’t remember. Rachel paused when she saw that Quinn and Brittany had come as well, both looking beautiful in their slim, pale gowns.

Rachel felt a familiar flare of jealousy at the sight of Quinn, who was so beautiful and poised and grown-up. Quinn was nice enough, but Rachel hated her sometimes for being so pretty. Brittany, Quinn’s cousin, didn’t have her delicately symmetical features, but she attracted a lot of male attention all the same. Rachel had always assumed Kurt would marry one of them some day. Her stomach clenched when she remembered that Kurt was--Kurt was--

"Rachel, honey, have you seen Kurt or Blaine?" her mother asked. "Dinner will start soon and we wanted to hear you and Kurt sing beforehand."

For a moment, Rachel wanted to blurt out everything she'd seen, every awful moment of it. But she couldn't. The words wouldn't leave her throat.

"I just saw them," she said instead. "Kurt said they'll be in in a moment."

"We could start with my solo, Mrs. Hummel," Santana said, standing. She was radiant in a red dress. 

"Oh?" her mother asked, looking surprised. "Well, I suppose we could. If you don't mind, darling?" she asked Rachel, smiling softly.

Rachel shook her head. "No, it's fine," she said quietly, taking a seat near Sam, who ruffled her hair.

Santana smiled and moved up to the front of the room. They had a small upright piano tucked away there. Brad, her father's most trusted servant, moved forward to take a seat at it. Both Rachel and Kurt knew how to play the piano, but Brad liked to play accompaniment, so they often let him. Santana gave him a wave, and he started playing. Rachel wanted to remain in her funk, but she couldn't resist the draw of music. She frowned at the opening chords. They sounded oddly familiar . . . .

Santana stepped forward and spread her arms, singing in a low, raspy voice, _"Summertime, and the living is easy."_

Rachel's jaw dropped. She'd heard the original, of course, and some other artists who'd covered it, but never like _this_. Santana made it--so _unique,_ especially with her rough-edged voice. Rachel, despite herself, leaned forward with fascination.

_"Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high,"_ Santana sang. She stepped forward and her eyes met Rachel's. _"Your daddy's rich, and your momma's good-looking. So hush, little baby, and don't you cry."_

Santana moved around the room, stopping briefly in front of Brittany. For a moment, her voice, which had started so strong, quivered. It was only when she looked away that she regained her strength. Rachel watched as she moved towards Sam’s friend, singing towards him much more confidently. Rachel frowned as they stared at each other, some strange emotion creeping up her spine. The way Santana and Sam’s friend stared at each other made her shiver with something like uneasiness.

Santana continued to stare at Sam’s friend as her song ended. She only took her eyes off of him when the room erupted in applause, and she dipped into a curtsy, smiling, more bashful than Rachel had ever seen her. Santana went to sit down and just as she reached her seat, Kurt and Blaine hurried into the room.

Rachel’s insides turned to ice. Kurt and Blaine both looked rumpled, and she couldn’t help thinking about how she’d found them, how Blaine had had her brother _trapped against the wall_ \--

“Did I miss our duet?” Kurt asked, smiling. Rachel noticed that his smile was a bit strained and fury surged in her. She wouldn’t want to smile either, if she’d been through what he had. 

“No,” she said fiercely, taking his hand and dragging him to the front of the room. “Let’s do it!”

Kurt gave her a strange look but shrugged and turned to face their family with a smile. Rachel kept her eyes locked on Blaine, who had taken a seat by Santana and looked uncomfortable. 

_“Forget your troubles,”_ Kurt started as the music began.

Rachel nearly missed her que, but she hurriedly came in, just over the end of Kurt’s line, _“Come on get happy.”_

They went on that way for a while, each overlapping the other. Rachel found that she relaxed more and more as the song went on, smiling at Kurt and dancing playfully around the room as they sang. She almost managed to forget Blaine as they came to the end, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. The room rose and applauded and Rachel felt on top of the world, with her family grinning at her and Kurt’s arm warm around her. Then she saw Blaine, standing with the rest of them, clapping wildly, and her stomach dropped.

“That was wonderful!” her mother said, coming up to them and pressing kisses to their cheeks. “You are going to take Broadway by storm, my dears.”

“You’re too kind, Carole,” Kurt said, still grinning wide and happy.

“Thank you, mother,” Rachel said, though her attention was still focused on Blaine.

There was a pause and Rachel looked up to see her mother regarding her with confusion. She shook it away a moment later. “Well, I think the servants have dinner ready for us.” She turned to the rest of the room. “If everyone’s ready?”

“More than,” Sam’s friend said, smiling as they all stood. “Ms. Berry, Kurt--that was marvelous. And Ms. Lopez, you did a wonderful job as well.”

“I missed Santana’s song?” Kurt asked, moving to her side. “What’d you sing?”

“Summertime,” Santana said. Blaine, coming up on their other side, whistled.

“Good choice,” he said, reaching over to pat her on the elbow. Rachel flinched. “That’s a great song, doll.”

Rachel watched as the threesome moved in front of her, chatting about _Porgy and Bess_. Her stomach knotted anxiously as she took a deep breath.

“Kurt, I’m going to go to the restroom before dinner,” she called out.

Kurt turned. “Alright, I’ll let Carole know. Be quick, dinner’s starting!”

“And we’re hungry!” Blaine added with a laugh, touching Kurt’s shoulder.

Rachel ran out of the room before she had to look at them any more. She kept replaying what happened in the library in her mind over and over, Kurt’s twisted expression, the way Blaine had him pinned to the wall--

She had to get that letter. It was the only evidence she had to get Blaine out of her house and away from Kurt. She didn’t understand how Kurt could stand to have Blaine in the same room as him.

She hurried into Kurt’s room. She bit her lip, surveying it. She didn’t know where Kurt would keep the letter, if he had. She began searching the dresser, hoping to get lucky. She only had a few minutes before Kurt would come looking for her, so she had to be quick.

She hissed with frustration when she came up with nothing on the dresser. Hurriedly, she went over to Kurt’s nightstand, riffling through the small jewelry box he kept there. Her eyes widened when she came across a folded piece of paper placed on top of Kurt’s various odds and ends. She snatched it up and unfolded it.

_Kurt,_

_Sometimes, in my--_

Rachel didn’t bother to read the rest, stuffing it into a pocket of her dress and hurrying out of the room, triumph beating along with her heart. She _had_ it. She resolved to ask her father for a meeting after dinner.

_Don’t worry, Kurt,_ she thought. _I’ll save you._

As she hurried down the hall, she noticed an open door and slowed, frowning. She peeked her head in and her frown deepened when she saw a note lying on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs:** Summertime, originally from  _Porgy and Bess_ , this version by Norah Jones, and Happy Days Are Here Again / Get Happy, from  _Glee_


	5. come back to me

Kurt felt like everyone could see his blush. 

He couldn’t look at Blaine. Or Rachel, for that matter. It had been torture, singing that song with her and pretending cold sweats weren’t breaking down his back every time he thought about her telling their father about what she’d seen him doing with Blaine.

And the blush was back.

Kurt stared down at his soup, wondering when his life had gotten so complicated.

“Has anyone seen Noah?” Carole asked suddenly, frowning. “I thought he was just late, but--”

“Mother!” Rachel yelled, rushing into the room, holding a piece of paper over her head.

Kurt’s heart stopped for one blinding moment, for all he could think of was the note he’d _stupidly, stupidly_ kept and if Rachel showed that to his _father_ \-- He half-rose out of his chair, eyes meeting Blaine’s panicked ones across the table.

“Noah’s run away!” Rachel cried, hurrying to Carole and thrusting the letter at her. 

Kurt dropped back into his seat, nearly boneless from relief. He noticed how Blaine slumped across the table.

“He says he’s run away to try and find his father,” Carole read from the note, her eyes wide with horror. “Burt, we can’t let him do this!”

Kurt’s father sighed. “We’ll look for him, Carole, but he may be long gone by now, and he’s nearly a man. There’s not much we can do to stop him either.”

“We have to at least search for him!” Carole resolved. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, and he just arrived! He doesn’t know where anything is, he could be lost!”

Santana, Kurt noticed, looked very pale. He wondered, suddenly, if she and Noah were close. It hadn’t seemed like it, but he realized, staring at her wide eyes and stricken expression, that they were brother and sister and they had been raised together. And, if nothing else, he was a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. 

“Sam, Kurt, Blaine,” his father said, “you’ll all help right?”

“You can count me in too, Mr. Hummel,” Karofsky spoke up.

“And me!” Rachel piped up, brows furrowing determinedly.

“And me too,” Santana said sharply. “He’s my brother, after all.”

His father sighed. “Alright. Kurt, you go with Rachel. Santana, you go with Sam. Blaine, if you’d be fine going with David . . . .?”

“Of course,” Blaine said, though he threw a look over at Kurt with such clear longing written in it that it warmed Kurt to his toes. 

“We’ll all search the grounds, see if he’s anywhere nearby,” his father said. “If we don’t find him, I’ll phone the police and tell them to keep a lookout.”

-

They all hurriedly ate their dinner and then marched out into the dark, flashlights in their hands. Rachel shivered a bit in the cold night air and took Kurt’s free hand in her own. They split off into their groups, each calling Noah’s name loudly as they went. 

“Noah!” Kurt called out as they headed into the dark. “Noah, are you out here? Noah?”

They continued to search for a long time, calling Noah’s name until they were hoarse. When a half-hour passed and they still hadn’t seen him, Rachel admitted that she was a bit worried. She didn’t know Noah well, but he was her cousin and she liked him better than she liked Santana. She didn’t want to see him get hurt. 

“Do you think he’s alright?” Rachel asked, shivering a bit. 

Kurt hugged her lightly. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a big boy, Rachel.”

Rachel nodded and tried not to think of the library. “I’ll just go over here,” she said gesturing to to another part of the garden, more secluded because of the rows of hedges. “Maybe he’s here.”

“Rachel--” Kurt started, sounding concerned, but Rachel ignored him and ducked into the undergrowth.

She made her way through the hedges for a little while, trying to calm down. She frowned when she realized she could hear noises up ahead - some sort of odd grunting noise, like a dog. Fear twisted in her stomach - maybe some wild animal had made its way into their backyard? Carefully, she tiptoed forward, gripping her flashlight tightly. _Step, step, step_ \--

She ducked under another branch and her flashlight swung for a moment, dancing over two bodies in the undergrowth. Rachel, for a single moment, flashed back to Kurt and Blaine, tangled together in the library, and when she came back to herself, one of the people was fleeing, his back turned to her. 

Rachel’s heart twisted in her throat as she trained her flashlight on the remaining figure, gasp rising in her throat as she realized it was _Santana_ there in the dirt, her beautiful red dress torn into shreds around her waist. There was--there was _blood_ on her and Rachel realized that she was crying--broken, almost quiet sobs that shook her whole body. Bile gathered in Rachel’s throat and threw up in the bushes. She gasped there for a moment, her entire body wrung out, then turned on her heel and flung herself down next to Santana, hauling her into Rachel’s lap and cradling her head carefully as Santana sobbed still. 

“ _Help_!” Rachel screamed to the sky, praying anyone would hear her. “Somebody _help_!”

-

The police arrived not long after that. 

Rachel sat on the couch, dry-eyed and shaking, staring ahead blankly. She heard the adults talking around her, but paid them no attention. In her head, she kept seeing Santana’s bloodied body again and again. 

Soon after they’d returned back, Sam and Blaine had come in, dragging Noah after them. He’d been bloodied and angry, but as soon as he’d heard that Santana was hurt, he’d frozen. Rachel hadn’t seen him move since he’d asked her father if he could sit with Santana and been refused. Rachel absently thought about reaching over to him, but it seemed like too much effort. 

“Rachel?” Rachel blinked, mind resurfacing as if from a dream. She looked up to see her mother standing over her, worry in her eyes. “Rachel, honey, the police want to talk to you. Do you think you can do that?”

Rachel nodded and stood, following the suited men into her father’s private study. She couldn’t even feel the delight that came from going in a place that was normally banned to her. 

Her father was already in the room and he touched Rachel’s shoulder gently, directing her into a chair. Across from her, behind her father’s desk, sat a suited man. 

“Rachel Hummel?” he asked, and she nodded. “Your family says you were the one to find your cousin. I know it’s hard, but did you manage to see who attacked her? Anything about him at all?”

Rachel shivered and Burt clamped a hand down on her shoulder. “Can’t this wait until later, gentlemen?” he asked. He sounded so _tired_. Rachel had never imagined her father could be so tired. “My daughter has been through a horrible experience.”

“If we want to catch who attacked your niece, we need to work as quickly as possible, Mr. Hummel,” one of the suited men said. “We’ll be as gentle as possible, I promise.”

Her father sighed, but didn’t withdraw his hand from Rachel’s shoulder. Finding comfort in the weight of his grip, Rachel sat up a little straighter and spoke past the lump in her throat.

“I think I saw who did it,” she said, and everyone’s attention was suddenly focused on her.

Rachel had gotten the barest glimpse of a face before she’d fumbled with her flashlight. She’d been thinking about that face all night, trying to figure out who it was. There was something familiar about it, the crop of dark hair, the shape of the face . . . .

Then, without warning, a thought had snuck in, whispering, _it was Blaine, wasn’t it?_

And suddenly all the pieces fit. Blaine, who Rachel knew attacked people and pinned them against library bookcases without their consent. Blaine, who was a dangerous sex maniac. Maybe he’d found out Santana and Rachel were onto what he was planning to do to Kurt and had attacked them first to get them out of the way. Rachel hated to think what he would’ve done to Santana if she hadn’t come and interrupted him. 

She squashed any of her doubts - the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that Blaine’s face was different from the one she’d seen, the question of why Blaine would attack a girl if he was a freak who liked men. It was Blaine. It had to be Blaine. He was the only one who fit.

Rachel looked up at the room full of people staring at her and took a deep breath. “It was Blaine,” she said.

-

Kurt didn’t know what was going on. 

“What are you doing with him?” he yelled at the policemen who were dragging Blaine out of the door. “What’s going on? What has he done?!”

Neither of the policemen looked at him. Blaine, though, glanced back, his eyes full of confusion and anguish. “Kurt--” he tried.

“You will _not_ talk to my son,” Kurt’s father said, coming up behind him. Kurt looked back at him, taken aback by the anger in his face. “Get him the hell out of this house,” he ordered the policemen.

“Father, what are you _saying_ ,” Kurt said. His chest felt too tight and he couldn’t quite breath. He started to follow Blaine and the policemen down the hall, but his father put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him back. “What’s going on?!” he demanded. “Why are they taking Blaine?”

“Did that boy proposition you?!” his father demanded furiously. “Did he force his attentions on you, Kurt?!”

Kurt froze, his mind blank. Then, fury roared through him. _Rachel_.

“I don’t know what Rachel told you,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “but it’s not true.”

Burt gave him a long, hard look. “She says Blaine was the one who--who attacked Santana.”

Kurt gaped at him. “She--She thinks _Blaine_ \--” He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Blaine is the _last_ person who would attack her!”

“Because he’s homosexual?” his father asked, eyes narrow and angry.

“Because he’s _Blaine_ ,” Kurt burst out. “He--He picks up stray kittens and wants to become a lawyer to actually _help_ people, by God--”

“Kurt, Rachel is accusing him,” his father said, softening a little. “She’s the only one besides Santana who has any credibility, and Santana’s in no condition to talk right now.” He paused, then added, “She showed us the note.”

Kurt froze again. “What note?” he asked, hoping Rachel hadn’t--

“The one that boy sent you,” his father said, getting angry again. Kurt’s heart dropped.

“Father--” he tried, but Burt interrupted him.

“Santana was--she was violated--” Burt shook his head, straightened his shoulders. “She was violated anally, Kurt.” Kurt blanched and for a moment, he felt a terrible pity for Santana. “I know a bit of what homosexuals do together, Kurt--no normal man would have taken her in that way, even forcefully.”

“Normal?” Kurt questioned, shivering a bit. He’d never thought about telling his father about his particular--yearnings. Having the reason why slapped in his face so blatantly hurt more than Kurt thought it would.

His father looked down at him. “I will not have a rapist under my roof, Kurt, especially when he attacks my niece and threatens my son,” he said decisively. “I may have watched over that boy from toddlerhood, but that changes nothing.”

“He didn’t _threaten_ me!” Kurt cried. “Rachel has it wrong--” He paused.

His father looked at him. “Kurt, I have never questioned your lack of interest in girls,” he said carefully, oh so carefully. “I have never once attempted to arrange a marriage, not even to Miss Fabray or her cousin.” Kurt’s chest felt too tight, the walls were closing in around him-- “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Father--” Kurt whispered, breathless with terror. 

His father sighed heavily and, for a moment, looked far older than forty.

“Kurt, you are--what you are. You are the second son - a wife is not required of you. I will never question what you do in your bedroom.” His father’s mouth twisted, either from disgust or disquiet. “If it had just been you, I would have spoken with Blaine and had him quietly transferred or sent off to school. But he has not only put his attentions on you, he has abused one of the girls in my charge--”

“We don’t _know_ that!” Kurt cried. “Rachel could have been mistaken--”

“He disappeared around the same time Rachel discovered Santana, according to Sam,” his father said grimly. “Her story fits. Blaine has yet to defend himself. Kurt, he is going to jail for attempted buggery and rape. That is the reality.”

“Father, you _can’t_ \--” Kurt said, so angry that he could feel tears gathering. “You can’t--” He turned away and rushed down the hall, ignoring his father’s voice, calling him back.

Outside, Blaine was being escorted to the police car. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his hair was wild, suit untucked and rumpled. Kurt rushed forward, only to be pulled back by an officer.

“Sir, please,” the officer said, gripping Kurt’s arms.

“Can’t I say goodbye?” Kurt asked, eyes fixed on Blaine. “He’s my best friend, _please_ \--”

The policeman hesitated. Kurt tore his eyes away from Blaine to look at him - young and curly-haired, laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes, he didn’t look very much like an officer of the law. 

“Please,” Kurt repeated. “Just let me say goodbye.”

The policeman sighed. “Bryan,” he called out. The policeman who had been escorting Blaine to the car paused, turning his head. “Let’s let them have a goodbye, alright?”

“William,” Bryan said, sounding irritated. “You know we can’t--”

“Come on, Bryan,” William said, smiling. “Let them have their dramatic farewell, yeah?”

Bryan huffed then turned back with Blaine, shoving him towards Kurt. “Two minutes,” he said warningly. “Hurry it up.”

Kurt released a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said to William, who smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Kurt hurried towards Blaine, catching him around the shoulders when he stumbled, off-balance because of the cuffs. 

“Kurt,” Blaine said, eyes wide and wet. “I’m sorry, Kurt, please, you have to believe me--”

“You didn’t do it,” Kurt said fiercely. Blaine stared at him.

“No,” he said. “No, I didn’t, but how do you--”

“You would _never_ do something like that,” Kurt interrupted. “Never. I don’t know what Rachel thought she saw--”

He stopped at the look on Blaine’s face, the heartbreak. “Rachel told them I did that?” he asked. “She thinks I could hurt Santana?”

Kurt shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “She says she saw you attacking Santana, but you didn’t.”

Blaine’s heartbroken look faded a little. “I can’t believe you--” He shook his head and leaned forward against Kurt’s body, burying his head in the crook of Kurt’s neck. “Thank you,” he said, voice muffled, breath warm against Kurt’s skin. Kurt shivered. “I didn’t think you would believe me. _Thank you_.”

“Blaine,” Kurt said, lowering his head so he was speaking directly into Blaine’s ear. “I will always believe you.” He paused, wondering if it was the right time to say it. Then he remembered - Blaine was going to prison for God knew how long, Kurt might never see him again-- “I love you,” he breathed.

Blaine shivered and pulled away from Kurt, staring up at him. “I love you, too,” he said, quiet and confident. 

Kurt reached out, taking Blaine’s face in his hand. Blaine closed his eyes, leaning in. “Come back to me,” Kurt said, voice breaking a little. “Please.”

Blaine opened his eyes, the hurt and heartbreak so small in the face of the love there. “I will,” he promised. “We’ll be together again, I promise.”

Kurt wanted to kiss him. He wished he could, wished that it didn’t spark fear in him at the thought of kissing the man he loved in public, where everyone could see them. Blaine turned his head, pressed a small kiss to the inside of Kurt’s wrist. 

“I love you,” he said, and pulled away, leaving Kurt’s hands cold.

“I’ll find you,” Kurt promised. 

“Come on, Anderson,” Bryan said, walking up. “Time to go.” He grabbed Blaine’s arm, then paused, glancing at Kurt. “He’ll be at the McKinley Jailhouse, in Lima,” he said quietly. “If you want to visit.”

“Thank you,” Kurt murmured, his eyes fixed on Blaine. He leaned forward, hugged him tightly, for the last time. “I love you,” he said, then pulled away, turning on his heel and marching to the house. He didn’t look back, even when he heard the car start - if he did, he’d run after Blaine and never stop. Instead, he walked to his huge house with its big, empty windows, his eyes stinging with tears. 

-

Rachel knocked tentatively at Kurt’s door the next day.

“Kurt?” she asked, voice trembling. “Kurt, _please_ \--”

She stood there for hours. Kurt never answered her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Five Years Later**   
**New York City**   
**Summer 1942**

Kurt took a seat in the lunchroom, setting aside his hat, making sure his hair was still in place. His hands were shaking slightly. Kurt didn’t know if it was from the coffee or--

He looked up when he heard a commotion at the door, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw Blaine there, apologizing profusely to the man he’d apparently knocked into. Kurt stared at him, drinking him in. He looked older, scruff around his jaw, and he was dressed in his army uniform already. Kurt wondered when he was going to be deployed. Probably tonight, or tomorrow morning. He bit down on the _unfairness_ of it - Blaine’s release should have been a thing of joy, of celebration. Instead, he was just exchanging one prison for another, and Kurt would have fear to add on top of his loneliness.

Blaine looked over from the man and his eyes widened when they met Kurt’s. Immediately he half-ran across the room, skidding to a halt at Kurt’s table.

“Kurt,” he said, throwing himself into his seat, his eyes fixed on Kurt. “You look--well.”

Kurt looked terrible and he knew it. “Wartime isn’t agreeing with me so far,” he said wryly. 

Blaine’s hands twitched. Kurt wondered if he was going to reach across and take Kurt’s hand in his own, despite the crowd of people around them. His fingers tingled, even though Blaine folded his hands in his lap instead. 

“You haven’t been sent out yet, though?” Blaine asked, worry written all over his face.

Kurt shrugged. “Not yet,” he said. “I’ve been helping out at the hospital as much as I can, and with my father’s work.” He bit his lip. “I expect I’ll be deployed any day now.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Blaine half-whispered. “I have no choice, but--”

Kurt shook his head. “I hate fighting, Blaine,” he said tiredly. “I have blood and I don’t want to kill anyone. I know that’s supposed to make me less of a man, but I don’t _care_. But I don’t have any more of a choice than you do about going, not unless I want to run away and make my father even more ashamed of me than he already is.”

Blaine reached out and touched Kurt’s shoulder, his eyes large and mournful. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it wasn’t for me--”

Kurt laughed without humor. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he said. “I love you, I do, but it’s not like you’re the only man I’ve ever found attractive.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow, grinning a bit. “Do I have competition?” he asked.

Kurt smiled at him, geninue and coy. “Would that bother you?”

“I’m sure I could win you back,” Blaine laughed. “I know all your secrets!”

“Well we _have_ know each other since birth, it’s only to be expected,” Kurt quipped. “And, no, you don’t have competition. It’s just--it’s not _just_ you. Women don’t interest me.”

“I’m sure Quinn is heartbroken about that,” Blaine said.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Quinn would never be happy with me if I _did_ think of her like that,” he said. “We’re too alike to be real friends, let alone _married_.”

“I wish I could marry you,” Blaine said, wistful. Kurt’s heart skipped a beat. “Maybe I’ll be able to one day.”

“Women are getting equal rights,” Kurt said, quiet and thoughtful. “African Americans are getting there too. Maybe one day we’ll do the same thing.” He met Blaine’s eyes, so bright and hopeful. “Do you think we’ll be alive to see it?”

Blaine’s hand closed over his for the briefest moment. “I hope we will be.”

Kurt looked around the crowded room. “Come with me,” he said, pulling Blaine to his feet. 

Blaine followed him out of the room, body tense. Kurt led him down the hall, conscientious of the eyes on them, and into one of the empty patient rooms. Kurt locked the door behind them and then turned, throwing himself at Blaine. Blaine caught him around the waist and buried his face in the curve of Kurt’s shoulder. For a moment, they stood there, breathing each other in.

“You aren’t allowed to die,” Kurt murmured into Blaine’s ear. “You have to come back to me, Blaine.”

Blaine pulled away a little, smiling up at him. “The same goes for you.”

Kurt laughed. “I’m much too fabulous to die,” he teased. 

“And I’m not?” Blaine asked, trying to pout. The twitch at the edge of his mouth gave away his amusement.

Kurt pinched his cheek. “You still have a ways to go before you reach my levels, sweetheart.”

Blaine smiled, leaning back against him. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Sweetheart,” Kurt murmured, bringing Blaine closer. “Darling, honey, beloved, dearest . . . Love . . .” Blaine shivered a bit.

“I’m going to miss this,” he said, a little plaintively. 

Kurt considered the top of Blaine’s head. “Dance with me?” he asked.

Blaine pulled back again, the look on his face owlish and surprised. “Dance?” he asked.

Kurt smiled. “Well, that night in the library was enough to fulfill my quota of untoward experiences in public places, so we aren’t doing _that_.” His smile deepened when he caught sight of Blaine’s blush. Blaine was so mature sometimes and so amusingly naive others. “And we’ve never danced together, have we? So . . . .”

“Dance, huh?” Blaine asked, eyes brightening. “Alright.” A mischievous look graced his features. He pulled away, offering his arm to Kurt, and sang softly, _“Heaven, I’m in Heaven . . . .”_

Kurt groaned, even as he flushed. “You can’t be serious, _Blaine_ \--”

Blaine smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. _“And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak . . . ._ Dance with me, Kurt.”

Kurt sighed, acting more put-upon than he felt, and took Blaine’s arm. Blaine pulled Kurt in close by the waist and immediately began spinning them around. Kurt laughed, stumbling after him for a moment until they settled into the rhythm of a waltz. They were silent for a moment before Kurt sighed and leaned down to Blaine’s ear.

_“And I seem to find the happiness I seek,”_ he sang softly, _“When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.”_

Kurt could feel Blaine’s grin against his cheek. “You like _Top Hat_?” he asked.

Kurt rolled his eyes and, without warning, stole the lead from Blaine in their next turn. “Of course I do, Fred Astaire is in it. Not to mention Ginger Roberts.”

“Ah, I forgot Fred is your idol,” Blaine said. 

Kurt slapped his shoulder. “He’s amazing,” he said. 

“Maybe you’ll meet him one day,” Blaine said. “When you get rich and famous on Broadway.”

Kurt paused, his feet stumbling. Blaine slowed their turns until they were just standing together, swaying, and looked up at Kurt with concern.

“I don’t know if that’ll happen anymore,” Kurt said quietly. “With the War.”

Blaine considered it. “Do you still want to be on Broadway?” he asked. 

“More than anything,” Kurt confessed.

“Then you’ll make it,” Blaine said, quietly confident. “I’ll make sure you do.” Blaine shook his head. “You can do anything you want, Kurt. Don’t give up hope yet.”

Kurt kissed him on the forehead. “I love you,” he said. Blaine’s eyes softened.

“I love you, too.” He smiled up at Kurt and sang softly, _“Night and day, you are the one . . . .”_

_“Only you ‘neath the moon, or under the sun,”_ Kurt sang back. Carefully, he leaned down and brushed a soft, chase kiss over Blaine’s mouth. “Come back to me,” he whispered against Blaine’s lips.

Blaine’s eyes were so soft, so warm. _“Whether near to me or far, it’s no matter darling where you are, I’ll think of you,”_ he sang softly. “I’ll come back,” he added, a promise. 

-

_August 10 1942_

_Dear Blaine,_

_Rachel keeps trying to talk to me. She’s been sending me letters, calling every week._

_We haven’t spoken since the day she sent you away. I don’t know what she wants from me now. I heard from father that she’s taken up nurse training. I suppose that means she’ll be sent off to England soon with the Red Cross. Maybe that’s why she feels it’s so urgent to speak with me._

_I don’t know what to do, Blaine. She’s my sister, but every time I think about her something twists in my stomach. I [scribbled out]. I hate her and I love her._

_Do you think I should talk to her? Why am I even asking, of course you do. You’ve probably already forgiven her._

_[scribbled out]_

_I don’t know if I can._

_I love you,_   
_Kurt_

-

**St. Mary’s Hospital, New York**   
**Fall, 1942**

“You asked to see me, Sister Sylvester?”

The Sister looked up, harsh features even more severe under her bonnet and bob of blonde hair. Rachel Hummel swallowed, intimidated despite herself. 

“I just got the most interesting tidbit of news from one of our nurses,” Sylvester said, an edge to her voice. “Would you like to hear it?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “Of course,” she said. She’d learned a long time ago that it was best to just give in to Sylvester’s cruelty, or it would only get worse. 

Sylvester grinned, all teeth. “She said one of the men who’d been in surgery the day before woke up and asked for _Rachel_.” Sylvester regarded her, eyes bright with mockery. “Do you happen to know who _Rachel_ is, Nurse Hummel?”

Rachel flinched. She remembered that man - Matt, his name was, and he’d screamed when they’d cut his leg off-- “I just--” _wanted to help him_.

“No,” Sylvester cut her off. “You are not Rachel in this hospital, you are _Nurse Hummel_. There is no Rachel! Do I make myself clear?” Rachel glared at her, but made didn’t speak. Sylvester sighed, waved a hand. “You may go. Check on the blankets, do whatever it is nurses do.”

Rachel turned on her heel and left, stomping out in true dramatic fashion. As she made her way through the halls, her anger abated a little and her stomps became an even pace.

“There is no Rachel,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Only Hummel . . . .”

-

Rachel took a deep breath and re-read the words on the page before her carefully, searching for mistakes. Satisfied, she drew the page off of the typewriter to set up another. She started when she heard footsteps.

“Aha!” Mercedes said, grinning at Rachel as her head popped into the attic. The rest of her body soon followed. “I thought it was you! All the girls thought it was a ghost or something.”

“Shh!” Rachel said. “You’ll wake Sylvester!”

“What’re you doing up here, dollface?” Mercedes asked with interest. She glanced at the typewriter, eyebrows rising. “Writing something?”

Rachel bit her lip. “A story,” she admitted.

Mercedes whistled. “A writer _and_ a singer? You’ve got it all!”

“I’m not very good at writing,” Rachel said, blushing. “I’ve never written anything before. But, there’s this story in my head and I need to get it down.” She looked down at the paper, her heart twisting. “I don’t know if I’ll even try and publish it.”

“You should, doll,” Mercedes said, plopping down next to Rachel. “I’d read it. Just like I’ll go see you on Broadway when you get there. That’s your dream once the war ends, right?”

Rachel smiled. “Yes,” she admitted. “That’s my dream. The story is just a . . . side project.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where you get all the time to do things, doll. First with the nursing and then with your singing gigs and now with this story business? Don’t you ever sleep?”

Rachel shivered a bit. She didn’t like sleeping. Sleeping meant dreaming, and in her dreams, she always remembered that horrible night. 

“Do you think Matron will let me leave early next week?” she asked, avoiding the question.

Mercedes frowned. “Another gig?” she asked. “Maybe the girls and I can sneak away--”

“No, no,” Rachel said hurriedly. “My cousin is getting married, that’s all. I got the invitation yesterday.”

Mercedes eyebrow lifted. “Quick wedding, huh? Your cousin get knocked up?”

Rachel laughed. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

“Matron will probably let you leave if you tell her it’s family related,” Mercedes mused. “She’d probably like it better if it was a funeral, though.”

Rachel laughed, leaning on her shoulder. For a moment they sat there, considering the dark sky outside the window.

“Do you think we’ll go to Europe soon?” Mercedes asked.

Rachel shivered and didn’t answer. She had no answer to give.

-

Rachel knocked tentatively at Sister Sylvester’s door. 

“Don’t come in if you’re just going to waste my time,” Sylvester said from inside, exasperated. Rachel sighed.

“It’s Hummel, Sister,” she said. “I need to speak with you.”

Sylvester’s sigh was loud enough to hear through the door. “If you must.”

Rachel popped the door open and hurriedly slid inside. Sylvester’s office was barren and almost obsessively neat except for a collection of trophies gathered on her desk. She looked up when Rachel came in.

“What is it, Hummel?” she asked impatiently.

Rachel took a deep breath. “My cousin is getting married in a few days,” she said carefully. “I was hoping I could leave early this coming Monday so I could attend her wedding.”

Sylvester considered her closely. “I’ll consider it.”

Rachel frowned. “It would really mean a lot to me, Sister,” she said evenly.

Sylvester glared at her. “Are you deaf or just stupid? I said I’ll consider it! Now get out of my office, I can’t stand to look at your unnatural shortness anymore.”

Rachel huffed and turned on her heel, stomping towards the door. Sylvester kept their hospital neat and running, but she was such an odious woman sometimes--

“Hummel,” Sylvester said as she reached the door. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Rachel paused, turned around. “What?” she asked.

Sylvester had an oddly calculating look on her face. “If you do something for me, I’ll let you go to your wedding without protest.”

Rachel hesitated. “What would you want me to do?” she asked.

Sylvester stood. “Follow me,” she said, breezing past Rachel and out of the door. 

Rachel scurried after her, curiosity growing as she realized Sylvester was leading her to the patients. They weaved among the beds for a little while until they came to a small, tucked away corner. Most of the beds were empty, but one had the curtains drawn around it. Sylvester slowed as she approached it and turned to Rachel.

“He’s feeling a bit disoriented,” she said. “Sit with him until he falls asleep and I’ll give you your wedding.”

Rachel blinked in surprise. “That’s all?” she asked.

Sylvester smiled. Rachel shivered a bit at the sight of it. “That’s all,” she agreed, turning on her heel to leave.

Rachel watched her go, frowning. Sylvester’s _deals_ were never that easy. Cautiously, she approached the bed, peeling back the curtains so she could slip inside. 

The boy on the bed looked older than her, though it was hard to tell with the heavy bandage around his head. He was awake, though his eyes were hazy and dazed. There was already a chair there, so Rachel took a seat. She’d never liked sitting with patients much - seeing their pain always made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. When she was fixing an injury or changing bandages, she never had to focus on it much, but just sitting there, staring at someone who was injured, made her feel powerless. 

The boy turned to her. In the dim light it was hard to tell, but he had a nice face. Handsome, even with the bandage, especially when he smiled as he was now.

“You’ve come at last,” he said, his voice little more than a cracked rasp.

“The Sister sent me,” Rachel said, almost embarrassed by the fondness in his expression.

“Did she marry that man she’s been pining over for so long?” he asked. Rachel froze, looked more closely at him. His eyes were so hazy and distant. She wondered who he thought he was speaking to. “What was his name?”

“Blaine,” Rachel said before she could stop herself. Her chest tightened - she hadn’t said that name in years. “She will soon, I hope.”

“Yeah, Blaine,” the boy muttered. “That was it.” 

“And what’s your name?” Rachel asked, hoping it wouldn’t confuse him. However, he was disorientated enough to not realize how strange it was for a supposed friend to be asking his name, for he grinned.

“Finn,” he said. “Finn Hudson. And you?”

Rachel paused. “Hummel,” she said quietly. 

“Hummel,” he repeated, brow furrowing. “That’s pretty.” A spasm of something like pain crossed his face. “I remember you! You came into my mother’s sewing shop every day. I remember your hair.” He reached out and touched the end of Rachel’s bob-cut. She was too startled to even flinch away from his fingers. He pulled away from her, the pained look deepening. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I think someone did my bandages up too tight. Could you re-do them for me?” He met her eyes. “Please?”

Rachel stood to look down at his bandage. It was held together by a pair of simple gauze bows, so it wouldn’t be that hard to adjust. Carefully she removed the bows and began to unwind the bandage.

“You remember my younger brother, Rory?” Finn asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “He still sings that Judy Garland song. _Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high . . . ._ You know the one?”

“I do,” Rachel said as she unwrapped more of the bandage. She was getting near the end of it - her stomach twisted when she saw how bloodstained the inner layers were. “You sing very well.” It was surprisingly true - Finn’s voice was cracked and rough, but good. She wondered what he’d sound like when he got well again.

  


“Oh no,” Finn said, almost of the edge of sheepish. “I’m not as good as Rory. But he looks so serious when he sings, you know? I try and tease him because it’s a girl’s song, but he never laughs with me about it.” Finn sighed. “He should laugh more. You wouldn’t recognize him - so serious.”

Rachel frowned when the very inside layer of the bandage wouldn’t come off and tugged a little. The bandage slipped down, finally revealing Finn’s head, and Rachel’s stomach twisted with horror when she realized that it wasn’t a scrape or a even a gunshot wound that had had Finn confined to bed. Part of his skull was _missing_ , just _gone_. Rachel was staring down at his head, and she could see his _brain_ clearly, a mess of pulsing pink cords--

Rachel took a deep breath, then another, and managed not to throw up.

Finn continued to speak, unaware of her horror. _“There’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby . . . ._ Don’t you like to sing? I remember that too - you always sang when you came into mother’s shop.”

“I do like to sing,” Rachel answer, proud when her voice remained steady. 

Slowly, carefully, she reached for the bandage and began to tuck it back around Finn’s head, to cover that terrible, terrible wound that was going to make this sweet, disoriented boy die painfully in a hospital bed. 

“We should sing together,” Finn said. “Mother says that people fall in love when they sing together.”

“Yes,” Rachel said, her voice steadier even than it had been before. She continued twining the bandage, careful not to jostle his head. “Yes, that does happen sometimes.”

“Is that why you want to sing with me?” Rachel couldn’t speak, couldn’t _answer_ \-- “Because, you know . . . My mother is very fond of you.”

Rachel’s stomach twisted. “Oh?” she asked weakly, her voice returning to her as she reached out for the gauze bows.

“Yeah. She said we should have a spring wedding, just like her and my dad.” She looked down to see Finn smiling at her. “We can sing that song together at our ceremony. Maybe Rory will smile again when we do.” Her throat felt suspiciously tight.

Rachel’s hands faltered at she tucked the bows in. She took a deep, calming breath and finished putting them in, sitting back down in her seat.

“I hope that’s more comfortable,” she said.

Finn’s eyes met her, still so hazy and confused. “Do you love me?” he asked.

Rachel’s throat tightened so much that it was hard to force the word out-- “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of course.”

Finn’s forehead was covered in sweat. Carefully, tenderly, Rachel reached out and dabbed at it with her sleeve. Finn’s eyes were fixed on her, wide and trusting as a child’s. 

“Can you stay awhile?” he asked.

Before she could answer, Finn’s entire body jolted, as if lit by electric wire. He broke out into tremors and he slumped forward. Rachel managed to catch him, and his forehead bumped against her cheek - she could feel the slickness where the blood was leaking from the bandages against her cheek. Heart thumping, she pulled away and pushed him back into his previous position. He stared up at her. There were tears running down his face.

“I’m frightened,” Finn whispered. “I’m so frightened, Hummel.”

“Rachel,” she said suddenly. “My name is Rachel.” She wanted nothing more than to gather him back against her, to hold him close--

“Stand up, Sister Hummel.”

Rachel turned to see Sylvester there, regarding her with calm, even eyes. Rachel turned away from her, back to Finn, only to see him close his eyes, his body slumped against the bed. Her heart spasmed. 

“Sister Hummel.”

Rachel stood, numbly watching as one of her fellow nurses pulled a sheet over Finn’s face. She turned to Sylvester, who stood next to her. Sylvester sighed and reached out to her, adjusting her collar. 

“Go wash the blood off of your face, Rachel,” she said finally, a note of something close to tenderness in her voice. Rachel shivered and, without a word, ran out of the ward.

-

It had been a long time since Rachel had been able to wear her own clothes instead of her nurse’s garb - she took care to dress very neatly, considering Santana’s standards. 

The chapel was only a few houses down from the hospital, so Rachel was able to wait until the last minute until she needed to go. As she dashed down the street, she noted that the streets were very empty, and that most of the people on them were women or the elderly. Her heart constricted, thinking of all the brave men who had already gone off to fight - and those that would be forced to in the future. She tripped a bit over one of the cobblestones as she realized that she had no idea if Kurt had been sent out already, or if he’d been given a date--nothing. 

The thought haunted her as she slipped into the church - a small, pretty thing that was the last place Rachel would expect Santana to get married in. She took a seat in the back row, away from the rest of the family members. Most of them she didn’t recognize - she assumed they had to belong to the groom. Rachel’s brow furrowed, trying to remember his name. He was some big oil tycoon, a rich man, and Rachel, upon seeing the invitation, had had the inkling that she’d known him from somewhere--

She looked up when she heard shuffling near the front. The groomsmen were all arranging themselves neatly, and at their front was the groom himself. Rachel’s jaw dropped.

Karofsky! David Karofsky, Sam’s friend, the one who had come to visit during that terrible night--

She remembered the way Santana and Karofsky had looked at each other, but she’d never thought that there was attraction there. Rachel wondered when they’d had a chance to correspond and fall in love - Karofsky had left the morning after the terrible night, which none of them blamed him for. Rachel had never seen him again.

The wedding march started and Rachel turned, standing. She frowned when she realized that Santana had no bridesmaids - she walked up first, alone, beautiful in her white dress. Rachel’s frown deepened, watching her as she sat with the rest of the audience. Santana looked--tired. There were dark smudges under her eyes, her lips were pressed tightly together. 

“Dearly beloved,” the priest began, “we are gathered today to join in matrimony this man and this woman . . . .”

Rachel didn’t pay much attention to the ceremony, her eyes focused on Santana. She looked nothing like a bride in love on her wedding day. Indeed, Rachel realized, she looked like a woman heading to the gallows. Rachel wondered why Santana was marrying Karofsky, if she didn’t love him. 

The ceremony drew to a close after an hour. Karofsky took Santana’s arm, proudly displaying her ring, and led them back down the aisle. Rachel stood, intending to slip away before either of them could see her, then stopped, frowning. Karofsky was coming closer, and Rachel could see his face clearly for the first time all day. There was something oddly familiar about those features, something that tugged at her memory. What--

Karofsky half-turned to her, grinning. 

_\--there was something familiar about it, the crop of dark hair, the shape of the face . . . ._

“No,” Rachel whispered, sinking back into her seat. 

_\--the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that Blaine’s face was different from the one she’d seen . . . ._

Rachel lifted her eyes as Santana and Karofsky passed her. Karofsky didn’t notice her, but Santana did, her eyes wide with astonishment. Rachel stared back at her, trembling. _I have wronged you,_ she thought dazedly. _I have wronged so many people_.

She stood and ran out of the chapel, crashing past Santana and Karofsky, ignoring Santana’s cries of her name. Tears were gathering in her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away, running blindly down the street as the terrible truth crashed down on her again and again:

Blaine wasn’t the one who had attacked Santana. Karofsky was.

\--

_November 29 1942_

_Dearest Kurt,_

_I understand that you do not wish to speak to me, and I cannot say I would blame you if you tore this letter up instead of reading it. I would deserve it, for the things I’ve done to you, and to Blaine, things that I only truly understand the gravity of now._

_I need to speak with you. It is a matter of grave importance. Please see me this one time and then, if you wish, I will never bother you again._

_Your sister,_   
_Rachel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs:** Cheek to Cheek, from  _Top Hat_ , Night and Day, originally from  _The Gay Divorcee_ , this version by Frank Sinatra, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow by Judy Garland.  
> 


	7. guadalcanal

**[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/unwritten25/pic/0000z5c5/) **

**Guadalcanal**  
 **December 1942**

Blaine tried to take deep breaths, but the stinging pain in his side made him break off in a gasp instead, flinching a bit.

“Hold _still_ ,” Trent, their unit’s doctor, said with exasperation, face screwed up with concentration. “It’s not a paper cut, it’s a _gunshot wound_ , Anderson.”

“I know, I know,” Blaine said, smiling tersely. “Just--Ah!” 

“Got it,” Trent said, grimly victorious as he held up a blood-covered bullet. “Now let’s get that wound stitched shut, shall we?”

Blaine did his best not to flinch at the feeling of a needle stitching his skin back together, but it was hard. 

“Anderson, if you start to feel feverish at _all_ , you tell me, got that?” Trent demanded. “You’re still in danger of getting infected. If our damn supplies would come, I wouldn’t be worried, but--”

“I’ll keep an eye on it, doc,” Blaine said, standing and stretching. He winced as pain raced along his side, but did his best to ignore it. “Am I free to go now?”

Trent sighed. “Yes, yes. Send in Smythe when you’re done, got it?”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Will do,” he said, saluting with two fingers. “Sebastian!” he called. “Trent wants to see you!”

Sebastian climbed out of his pit, all long, lean grace and seductive charm. Blaine rolled his eyes. He’d decided against telling Kurt about Sebastian’s focus on him and the way Sebastian repeatedly tried to get him alone. Sebastian was good-looking and Blaine was admittedly lonely, but he would never cheat on Kurt. Besides, Sebastian was a prick - he expected people to fall along behind him because his dad was a rich attorney back in the States. 

“You know, I don’t much like playing patient,” Sebastian said as he passed Blaine. “But I wouldn’t mind playing _doctor_ with you, Blaine,” he added with a wink.

Blaine sighed, but forced a smile on his face. “I’m not that great of a doctor,” he said apologetically, turning away to hurry to his pit.

“Sebastian again?” Wes asked as Blaine slid down. 

Blaine rolled his eyes. “I don’t think he’s ever going to get the hint that I’m not interested,” he muttered dejectedly, shoving his helmet back on. 

“Maybe if you just told him a flat-out no, he’d get the hint,” David said, nudging Blaine’s shoulder. “You’re too polite for your own good, Blaine.”

Blaine shrugged, uncomfortable. “He’ll get the picture eventually,” he muttered. He moved over to his corner and picked up his most recent letter to Kurt. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the way Wes and David exchanged grins. “What?” he snapped.

David spread his arms. “Say hi to Kurt for me,” he said, his smile all teeth. 

Blaine, being very mature and adult, stuck out his tongue. “What makes you think this letter is even for Kurt, huh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

David laughed. “Blaine, you don’t write to anybody else. Not even your _mother_.”

Blaine tensed, good humor evaporating. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in years, not since her first and only visit to McKinley. She’d come in, told him point blank that he was no longer any son of hers, and then left without a backward glance. 

David’s contrite face meant that Blaine hadn’t hidden his sudden tension as well as he’d hoped. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to bring up issues.

“Don’t worry about it,” Blaine said, relaxing a bit. He sat down, wincing as pain raced up his side and left his head throbbing.

“Blaine?” Wes asked, moving to his side. “You alright?”

Blaine waved his concern away. “‘M fine, Wes. The doc’s running ragged because we haven’t got our supplies yet, so this,” he gestured to his side, “is still a little tender. Don’t worry about it.”

Wes eyed him. “If you’re sure. Don’t put too much strain on it.” He nudged Blaine’s shoulder. “It _is_ a gunshot wound, after all. Those yellow bastards got you good, huh, Anderson?”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “I got them back one better,” he said, on automatic. He tensed when the memory came back - the way the Jap’s head had blown off from the gunfire, his guts spilling out as his body collapsed. 

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, and shoved that memory back down. Instead he replaced it with memories of Kurt - the way Kurt’s nose crinkled when he smiled widely, the feeling of his lips, the sound of his laugh . . . . Blaine opened his eyes, feeling calmer. 

He turned back to his letter to Kurt, ignoring the looks David and Wes sent him as they started up their meager dinner. He re-read his last couple lines, snorting at the bit about going on leave. That had been weeks ago - he was pretty sure no one was going on leave now that the campaign had started in earnest. But it wouldn’t hurt to hope, would it? It never hurt to hope.

He sat down and, with the stub of a pencil, began writing his next few words . . . .

-

Blaine panted heavily, side aching as he climbed into the hole. He’d been back to see Trent, but the doc had just said it was a minor infection, nothing to worry about. Blaine wasn’t so sure - his side felt like it was on _fire_ \- but Trent hadn’t steered him wrong yet. 

“Blaine?” Wes whispered.

“Warbler,” Blaine said, that night’s password. “Sorry, just--”

“Your side, yeah,” Wes said, moving over so that Blaine could sort of see him in the moonlight. “What’d Trent say?”

“Just a minor infection,” Blaine said, stiffly making the way to his tiny sleeping corner. He had a few hours before it was his turn at patrol. “He said it’d clear up in a few days.”

Wes was silent for a moment. “Ah,” he said finally. “Alright then. If Trent says so . . . .” Blaine could hear the uncertainty in his voice, but ignored it. 

“I’m going to sleep for a few hours,” Blaine murmured, sighing in relief as he managed to lay down. His side didn’t hurt as much when he was lying down.

“I’ll wake you when it’s your turn,” Wes promised, moving back to his position. “Not that there’s much to see.”

Blaine closed his eyes. His head felt too light and hot. He hoped that Trent was right and the infection would run its course in the next day or so. He didn’t want to think about having to move through the jungle tomorrow feeling as shitty as he was right now. It was already bad enough with the tension from not knowing where the Japs were and the damn mosquitos.

Blaine yawned, cracking his eye open to see Wes still sitting there. He looked strangely distorted, perhaps from the lack of light. Blaine smiled blearily and closed his eyes again. He pictured Kurt as his mind drifted off. Kurt, in his grey bowtie, smiling and laughing. Kurt standing on the edge of a fountain, dripping wet and defiant. Blaine ached from missing him. 

“Wake me when it’s my turn, yeah?” he whispered. In the quiet, Wes was sure to hear him. Slowly, quietly, Blaine drifted to sleep.

-

_December 1 1942_

_Dear Kurt,_

_I’ve just been told I’ll be on leave soon. Would it be alright if I visited you? It’s only been a few months, but it seems like so much longer since we’ve seen each other._

_I’m in the Pacific now, on a tiny island no one’s ever heard of and whose name I can’t even pronounce. The weather here is different than home - hotter, and wetter. The bugs in particular are pests - adjusting has been difficult. It helps when I imagine how you’d react to a mosquito biting you all over and I can laugh._

_I think you should talk to Rachel. She’s [scribbled out]. She’s a good girl. I don’t what she saw, why she thought it was me, but she was a kid. Maybe it’s easier to forgive her since I’m here, blowing people’s heads off and staring death in the eye. Talk to her. See what she wants. Maybe she’s ready to make amends, after all these years._

_I miss you, more than I can say. I dream about you all the time, and not even in_ that _way, just-- [scribbled out]_

_My father owned this house, on the beach. My mother never went there after he died because it was too painful, but I visited it once. It was old, worn-down and decaying, but I could see how it could be fixed up and made beautiful. I dream about us moving out there sometimes, just you and me. In the dream, we fix up the house together, make it beautiful and warm. You paint the windowpanes blue and I make a garden outside, and it’s_ _home_ _. There’s no one around for miles, and we can just be together, just you and me, without any judgement or horror. And we’re happy, so happy._

_I want that dream to be real more than I can say. It’s what’s keeping me going here, keeping me from losing my mind after killing men left and right. I hope that when you come over to this Hell, you can hold it close to you, wrap it around you like armor to keep the horror out and your soul intact. I can’t lose you, Kurt._

_I love you,_  
 _Blaine_

_[Scribbled out post-script]_

_[Written at the very bottom, almost illegible]_  
 _Night and day, you are the one_  
 _Only you ‘neath the moon or under the sun_  
 _Whether near to me or far_  
 _It’s no matter, darling, where you are_  
 _I think of you day and night_


	8. and, most of all, loved

Rachel took a deep breath, then another. She slowly raised her hand to knock at the door. Before her knuckles made contact, the door opened. Rachel’s hand dropped limply away as she met the eyes of her brother for the first time in five years.

“Rachel,” Kurt said coldly.

“Kurt,” Rachel stuttered, heart fluttering. “I--”

“Might as well come inside,” Kurt said, turning away from the door. Rachel was left staring at the empty doorway, completely flustered.

She made her way inside the apartment carefully. It was very neatly maintained, but it was obvious how run-down it was. Rachel wondered if Kurt had asked their father for help, or if they still weren’t speaking. 

“Sit down,” Kurt said, a cigarette in his hand. “Make yourself _comfortable_.”

Rachel bit her lip and, very carefully, took a seat on one of the kitchen chairs. She watched as Kurt paced the room, cigarette dangling from the edge of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said cautiously, before she could stop herself.

Kurt laughed without humor. “What, I might ruin my voice?” He met Rachel’s eyes and she winced back from the fury she saw there. “Why do you even _care_ , Rachel?!”

“You’re my brother,” Rachel whispered.

“That didn’t matter much five years ago,” Kurt snapped. He visibly reigned himself in. “What do you want, Rachel?”

Rachel straightened. “I want to go in front of a judge and change my evidence,” she said. 

Kurt froze. “You’re an unreliable witness,” he pointed out. “They’d never re-open the case.”

Rachel slumped down a little. She hadn’t thought of that. “I can at least go home and tell Father and Mother and everyone,” she insisted stubbornly.

“Why even come here first, then?” Kurt asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I wanted to see you,” Rachel said quietly, truthfully. 

Kurt shook his head, finally sitting down at the chair opposite of Rachel’s. “They won’t want to hear it,” he said, anger deflating. “That mess has all been neatly tidied away now.”

“Kurt--” Rachel started, only to jump as one of the doors in the apartment banged open. 

She half-turned and froze when her eyes met Blaine’s. He was barely dressed - an open shirt hung on his shoulders, revealing a huge bandage on his side, and more, older wounds beside. He stared at her, expression icy, then turned away to go into the kitchen. Rachel turned to Kurt, who stared at her, his eyes hard. Rachel had to swallow around a sudden thickness in her throat. They were never going to forgive her.

“What is she doing here?” Blaine asked, coming out of the kitchen, a beer clapsed tightly in a white-knuckled grip. 

“She came to speak to me,” Kurt said, standing and going over to him.

“Oh?” Blaine asked. “About what?” He still didn’t look at Rachel, his gaze focused on Kurt.

“About the terrible thing I did,” Rachel interrupted. 

Blaine’s head snapped around, his eyes meeting hers, and Rachel shrank from the pure, unbridled fury there. In two steps, Blaine was in front of her, his arm half-raised, as if he wanted to smack her. 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like in jail?” he half-whispered. “No, of course you don’t. Did it give you pleasure to think of me in there?”

“No,” Rachel whispered.

Blaine’s arm lowered a bit, but the anger didn’t leave his face. “Do you think I assaulted your cousin? That I assaulted Kurt?”

“No.”

“Did you think it then?”

“Yes! Well, no!” Rachel shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “It was just so confusing.”

“And what’s made you so sure now?” Blaine snapped.

“Growing up,” Rachel muttered. 

“Growing up?” Blaine asked incredulously.

“I was thirteen,” Rachel said, more loudly, almost defensively.

Blaine laughed, so sharp-edged and angry that Rachel wanted to cover her ears. “How old do you have to be before you know the difference between right and wrong, Rachel? Do you have to be eighteen before you can own up to a lie? There are _soldiers_ out there who are eighteen, left to die on islands no one’s ever heard of. Did you know that?”

“Yes!” Rachel cried, tears flowing freely.

“Five years ago, you weren’t so interested in telling the truth,” Blaine yelled, almost incoherent with fury. “You and your family just--assumed, for all my education, that I was still no better than a servant, not to be trusted, little more than a dog! And you were able to close ranks and throw me to the fucking wolves!”

Rachel shook her head, staring up at him. Blaine lunched forward, as if he would attack her. Rachel steeled herself for it, almost welcoming it, but Kurt stepped forward, taking Blaine’s elbow.

“Blaine,” he said, drawing him in. He gave Rachel a look before placing a light, lingering kiss on Blaine’s lips. Rachel glanced away, flushed with shame and--something else. “Blaine, please.”

Rachel glanced back at them. Blaine was shaking with rage, his eyes focused on Kurt. Kurt had his arms around Blaine’s shoulders, their foreheads touching. 

“Come back to me,” Kurt whispered. “Blaine, come back to me.”

For a moment, Rachel didn’t think it would help. But then Blaine sighed, long and low and heavy, and the tension seeped from his body. He relaxed bonelessly in Kurt’s hold. 

“Rachel,” Kurt said, calm and quiet, even as his eyes stayed fixed on Blaine. “There isn’t much time. Blaine has to leave for duty tomorrow morning at six.” He finally turned to look at her. Some of the hardness had left his eyes. “There’s a few things you’re going to do for us.”

Blaine pulled away from Kurt’s hold and, without looking at Rachel, leaned up to kiss him on the lips, harder and deeper than Kurt’s peck had been. Rachel flushed again, but didn’t look away. Blaine turned towards her after the kiss, expression hard but no longer terrifyingly angry.

“You’ll go to your parents and tell them whatever you have to to make them believe your evidence was false. Then you’ll go to a soliciter and make a statement. Get it signed, get copies sent to us. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Rachel said.

“Then you’ll write a detailed letter to me, explaining all of the events that led to you saying you saw me attack Santana that night.” He paused, brow furrowing. “Do you know who actually did it?”

Rachel paused. “David Karofsky,” he said quietly. “Sam’s friend. He’s married Santana. I went to their wedding.”

Blaine and Kurt exchanged a look. “She won’t be able to testify against him now,” Kurt said quietly. Rachel’s heart dropped. “He’s immune.”

Rachel stood up. She hadn’t thought of that. Her throat felt too tight. She’d hoped that his meeting would bring her on better terms with Blaine and Kurt, but instead she felt like she had brought nothing but more trouble.

“I’ve very sorry to have caused you this distress,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll go now.” She hurried to the door, paused. “I am so, very, very sorry,” she said again.

“Just do what I told you to,” Blaine said, quiet and weary. “Write it all down.”

“I will,” Rachel promised, then left.

-

Outside, she glanced back up at their building. She managed to make out Blaine and Kurt in the window. They were kissing passionately, clutching each other as if afraid to let go. Rachel watched them for a long moment, then turned, hurrying down the street, her chest tight and throat full. 

-

**Present Day**   
**America**

“ . . . Ms. Berry?”

Rachel blinked, looking back at the smiling face of Holly Holiday. “I’m sorry, could we take a break?” she asked.

Holly’s eyebrow furrowed. “Oh, but--”

“I just need to collect my thoughts,” Rachel said, forcing a smile.

Holly eyed her. “Alright. Let’s take a five!”

Rachel hurried away, into one of the bathrooms in the studio. She splashed some water on her face, sighing as it hit her overheated skin. She leaned back up, pausing when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Hair gone gray, crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and mouth, soft, sagging skin at her throat . . . she really was getting old. It caught her off-guard sometimes, how aged she was. It seemed like just yesterday she was a fresh-faced young girl, nursing patients  at St. Mary’s. 

She turned back, ready to face the studio again. When she came outside, all eyes turned to her. Rachel didn’t let it faze her - she was used to the attention.

“Shall we start again?” Holly asked, already in position. Her blonde ponytail had been readjusted, but otherwise it looked like she hadn’t moved.

“Yes,” Rachel said, sitting back down, her bones creaking.

“We were just about to start talking about your new book - released in a few weeks, I believe? It’s your debut novel, isn’t it, Ms. Berry?”

“Yes,” Rachel said. “Though you could say it’s been in my life longer than my musical career. I started it when I was a teenager, working as a nurse at a small hospital in New York City.”

Holly’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? Why did it take you so long to publish?”

Rachel considered it. “I suppose until now I never had the proper motivation to scare me into publishing it.”

“Scare you?” Holly asked, nonplussed. “Why--”

“You see, I’m dying, Ms. Holiday.” Holly’s mouth dropped. Rachel smiled a little. She’d never been able to flabbergast Holly before. “I have vascular dementia, or so my doctors tell me. It’s a series of continuous strokes. Eventually you lose your memory, your words . . . So, you see, I could no longer put it off.”

“Why did you want to?” Holly asked. “Was it because it was autobiographical? It _is_ autobiographical, isn’t it?”

Rachel nodded. “I haven’t changed any of the names, including mine.”

“Yet you go by just Rachel Hummel in the books,” Holly said, raising an eyebrow.

Rachel smiled. “You know the story, Ms. Holiday.” Holly just gave her a look. Rachel sighed. “I found out when I was an adult that I had been adopted into the Hummel family. My real parents were forced to give me up because of their - at the time illegal - relationship. And, as you know, I was reunited with them in my mid-20’s and took on their name.” Rachel shook her head. “It was such a scandal then, especially when it came out that my parents were two men.”

“And your mother?” Holly asked eagerly, ignoring the whispers in the studio. Rachel had never hid it, but it wasn’t common knowledge that she had two fathers.

“An actress friend of theirs,” Rachel said. “We kept in touch until she died. But the point is, Ms. Holiday, that I kept my name that way because that was what I thought it was at the time.”

“Was that why it was hard for you to publish it?” Holly asked, leaning forward.

Rachel considered her. “No, that wasn’t it. I have, for a very long time, decided to tell nothing less than the absolute truth. No, it was . . . .” She sighed. “You’ve read the book, Ms. Holiday, perhaps you can understand why. I got first hand accounts of all the events that I wasn’t personally involved in - the scenes at Guadalcanal, which several of Blaine Anderson’s team were able to piece together for me, that sort of thing. But the effect of all that honesty was rather pitiless. I could no longer imagine what purpose could be served by it.”

“By what? By honesty?” Holly asked, genuinely puzzled.

Rachel shook her head. “By reality,” she explained. She took a deep breath, stomach twisting. “For, you see, I was actually too much of a coward to go and see my brother in 1942. The scene in which I go to him and Blaine to confess is entirely fake. And, in fact could never have happened.” Rachel’s throat closed up a little. 

“Why?” Holly asked, more gently.

Rachel swallowed heavily. “Because Blaine Anderson died of his infection in early November of 1942,” she said stiffly. “And I was never able to put things right with my brother, Kurt, because he died a few months later, also in Guadalcanal, in early 1943.”

Holly’s eyes were wide, shocked. Rachel leaned over and patted her very gently on the hand.

“So you see, Kurt and Blaine never got to have their happiness. It’s something that I’ve always felt that I . . . .” Rachel frowned, biting her lip, “had a very large part in preventing.” She met Holly’s horrified eyes calmly. “But what sense of satisfaction or hope does a reader get from an ending like that? So, in the end, I gave them what they lost out in life.” 

Rachel looked down at her hands, considering the soft wrinkled skin. She didn’t look up as she finished, quietly, “I’d like to think that this isn’t . . . weakness, or evasion, but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness.” Rachel looked up again. “And, in giving them their happiness, I managed to achieve some sense of atonement.”

-

_The weather was warm, crisp--it was summer yet again. On the beach, waves rolled in, heavy with foam. The air was quiet except for the distant cry of the sea gulls._

_Then, laughter. Kurt and Blaine came running down the sand, tied in a race, both grinning widely. At the last moment, Blaine jumped to his left and tackled Kurt into the sand. They laid there for a moment, laughing breathlessly. Then, slowly, Blaine leaned down and kissed Kurt in the open, the sunshine on their heads. When he pulled away they quietly, almost reverently, got back up, brushed off their clothes, and walked down the rest of the beach, their fingers intertwined. In front of them was a house - there was a garden growing in front of it, and its windowpanes were painted the bright blue of a robin’s wing._

_And they lived there for the rest of their days, happy and free and, most of all, loved._

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Story Notes:** There are a few loose ends that I didn’t have the time to fit into my narrative. First, on the subject of Finn - it was my headcanon that he was raised by biological father and his new wife after Finn's dad and Carole got divorced, and never knew his mother or her new family. Second, it’s also my headcanon that Puck and Quinn got married eventually, and that Santana finally kicked Karofsky to the curb and ran away with Brittany. Rachel, for me, stayed single all her life, though she had several off and on again flings with Jesse. And the house that Blaine mentions - Rachel buys it, and makes it a memorial to Kurt and Blaine. Thank you so much for reading - feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.
> 
> -
> 
> **Battles Mentioned:** Guadalcanal Campaign (August 7 1942 - February 9 1943). Fought on the Guadalcanal Island. It was the first offensive action made by the Allied forces.  
>  **Terminology:** Snipe is a cigarette. Doll, dame, dollface, ect are all ways to refer to women.   
>  **Music:** Summertime from _Porgy and Bess_ , Happy Days Are Here Again / Get Happy, Mood Indigo, Cheek to Cheek from _Top Hat_ , Night and Day, Somewhere Over the Rainbow from _Wizard of Oz_. 
> 
>   
> 


End file.
